NNRLF 


M03 


LIBRARY    OF   THF 


University  of  California. 


C  /  A'  C  UL  A  TI N  GBR  A  Ar  C  H . 


Return  in  tae*  weektf ;  or  a  week  before  the  end  JK  the  term. 


POEMS. 


POEMS 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 


KEW  AND  ENLARGED   EDITION. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,    REED    &    FIELDS. 

M  DCCC  XLIX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S48, 

BY  WILLIAM  D.  TICKNOR  &  COMPANY, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED    BY 

GEOKGE    A.    CURTIS; 

NEW   ENGLAND   TYPE   AND    STEREOTYPE   FOUNDERY, 
BOSTON. 


PRINTED    BY    THURSTON,    TORRY    &    CO., 

31  Devonshire  Street. 


A 


THE  AUTHOR  TO  THE  PUBLISHERS. 

I  THAN-K  you  for  the  pains  you  have  taken  to  bring  together 
the  poems  now  added  to  this  collection ;  one  of  them  having  been 
accidentally  omitted,  and  the  existence  of  the  others  forgotten. 
So  many  productions  which  bear  the  plain  marks  of  immaturity 
and  inexperience  have  been  allowed  to  remain,  because  they  were 
in  the  earlier  editions,  that  a  few  occasional  and  careless  stanzas 
may  be  added  to  their  company  without  any  apology.  I  have  no 
doubt  you  are  right  in  thinking  that  there  is  no  harm  in  allowing 
a  few  crudities  to  keep  their  place  among  the  rest ;  for,  as  you 
suggest,  the  readers  of  a  book  are  of  various  ages  and  tastes,  and 
what  sounds  altogether  schoolboy-like  to  the  author  may  be  very 
author-like  to  the  schoolboy.  Some  of  the  more  questionable 
extravagances  to  be  found  in  the  earlier  portion  of  the  volume, 
have,  as  I  learn,  pleased  a  good  many  young  people  ;  let  us  call 
these,  and  all  the  others  that  we  have  outgrown,  Juvenile  Poems, 
but  keep  them,  lest  some  of  the  smaller  sort  that  were,  or  are,  or 
are  to  be,  should  lament  their  absence.  I  thought  of  mentioning 
the  date  at  which  the  several  poems  were  written,  which  would 
explain  some  of  their  differences;  but  the  reader  can  judge  them 
nearly  enough,  perhaps,  without  this  assistance. 


VI 


To  save  a  question  that  is  sometimes  put,  it  is  proper  to  say, 
that  in  naming  two  of  the  poems  after  two  of  the  Muses,  nothing 
more  was  intended  than  a  suggestion  of  their  general  character 
and  aim.  In  a  former  note  of  mine  (which  you  printed  as  a  kind 
of  preface  to  the  last  edition),  I  made  certain  explanations  which 
I  thought  might  be  needed  j  but  as  nobody  seems  to  have  misin 
terpreted  any  thing,  we  will  trust  our  book  hereafter  to  itself,  not 
doubting  that  whatever  is  good  in  it  will  redeem  and  justify  the 
rest. 

BOSTON,  January  13th,  1849. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

POETRY  ;    A  METRICAL    ESSAY           .                  .                  .  f 

Cambridge  Churchyard           .            .            .  13 

Old  Ironsides       ....  22 

NOTES            •             •....  37 

LYRICS. 

THE    LAST    READER                 .                  .                  .                  .  .43 

OUR    YANKEE    GIRLS                         .                  .                  .                 .  46 

LA    GRISETTE            ....  ,48 

AN    EVENING    THOUGHT                 ....  50 

A  SOUVENIR          ...  52 
"QUI  VIVE"               .             .             .                         .55 

THE    WASP    AND    THE    HORNET          .                 .                 .  .57 

FROM  A  BACHELOR'S  PRIVATE  JOURNAL           .            .  59 

STANZAS         ...  61 

THE  PHILOSOPHER  TO  HIS  LOVE  63 


VIII  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

L'INCONNUE        .....  •'!'         •      65 

THE    STAR   AND    THE    WATER    LILY        .  . 

ILLUSTRATION    OF    A    PICTURE        .  .  •  ,69 

79 
THE    DYING   SENECA  •  •  • 

A    PORTRAIT          .  •  •  •  •  .74 

A    ROMAN    AQUEDUCT  ....  76 

THE    LAST    PROPHECY    OF    CASSANDRA         .  .  .78 

ftl 
TO    A    CAGED    LION  • 

00 

TO   MY   COMPANIONS  •  • 

n  r* 

THE    LAST    LEAF  •  * 

EET    OF    PAPER  •  • 

91 


TO    AN    INSECT  . 

THE    DILEMMA       .  .  •  •  •  * 

07 
MY    AUNT        . 

I  AA 

THE    TOADSTOOL 

THE    MEETING    OF    THE    DRYADS 

THE   MYSTERIOUS    VISITER  .  106 

THE    SPECTRE    PIG 

LINES    BY    A    CLERK  .  .  •  •  .118 

REFLECTIONS    OF    A    PROUD    PEDESTRIAN 

THE   POET'S   LOT  •  • 

124- 
DAILY    TRIALS  • 

EVENING. BY    A    TAILOR                .                  •  •                  .       \4  i 

THE    DORCHESTER    GIANT  . 

TO    THE    PORTRAIT    OF    "  A    GENTLEMAN  "  .                  •       133 

TO    THE    PORTRAIT    OF    UA    LADY"       . 

THE    COMET            .                  .                                    •  •                  *       f.™ 

A    NOONTIDE    LYRIC      .  W 


CONTENTS.  DC 

FAGB 

THE    BALLAD    OF    THE    OYSTERMAN        .                  ,                 .  144 

THE    MUSIC-GRINDERS        .                  .                 .                  .                 .  147 

THE    TREADMILL    SONG                .                 •    •          '    .                  .  151 

THE    SEPTEMBER    GALE       .....  153 

THE    HEIGHT    OF    THE    RIDICULOUS        .                  .                 .  156 

THE    HOT  SEASON  158 


POEMS   ADDED   SINCE   THE   FIRST  EDITION. 

DEPARTED    DAYS                                                        .                 .  163 

THE    STEAMBOAT          .....  164 

THE    PARTING    WORD          .....       167 

SONG                   .....                 t  171 

LINES       .......       173 

VERSES    FOR    AFTER-DINNER     ....  176 

SONG         .                  .                 .                 .                  .                 •  .       180 

THE    ONLY    DAUGHTER                .                                    .                 .  182 

LEXINGTON             .                 .                  .                 .                 .  .       186 

THE    ISLAND    HUNTING    SONG                     .                 .                 .  189 

QUESTIONS    AND    ANSWERS                .                 .                 .  .191 

SONG                   .....                  .  193 

TERPSICHORE        .                 ...  196 


URANIA:  A  RHYMED  LESSON       ....     207 
NOTES    .  241 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE) 

THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION           .  243 

A  MODEST  REQUEST         .....  249 

NUX  POSTCCENATICA      .....  200 

ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL        .                          .             .  267 

THE  STETHOSCOPE  SONG        ....  272 

EXTRACTS  FROM  A  MEDICAL  POEM          .             .             .  278 

A  SONG  OF  OTHER  DAYS        ....  281 

A    SENTIMENT       ......  285 


TO 


CHARLES  WENTWORTH  UPHAM 


THE   FOLLOWING 


METRICAL    ESSAY 


IS     AFFECTIONATELY     INSCRIBED. 


POETEY; 


A    METRICAL   ESSAY, 


SCENES  of  my  youth  ! l  awake  its  slumbering  fire  ! 
Ye  winds  of  Memory,  sweep  the  silent  lyre ! 
Ray  of  the  past,  if  yet  thou  canst  appear, 
Break  through  the  clouds  of  Fancy's  waning  year ; 
Chase  from  her  breast  the  thin  autumnal  snow, 
If  leaf  or  blossom  still  is  fresh  below ! 
i 


2  POETRY ; 

Long  have  I  wandered ;  the  returning  tide 
Brought  back  an  exile  to  his  cradle's  side ; 
And  as  my  bark  her  time-worn  flag  unrolled, 
To  greet  the  land-breeze  with  its  faded  fold, 
So,  in  remembrance  of  my  boyhood's  time, 
I  lift  these  ensigns  of  neglected  rhyme ;  — 
O  more  than  blest,  that,  all  my  wanderings  through, 
My  anchor  falls  where  first  my  pennons  flew ! 


THE  morning  light,  which  rains  its  quivering  beams 
Wide  o'er  the  plains,  the  summits,  and  the  streams, 
In  one  broad  blaze  expands  its  golden  glow 
On  all  that  answers  to  its  glance  below ; 
Yet,  changed  on  earth,  each  far  reflected  ray 
Braids  with  fresh  hues  the  shining  brow  of  day ; 
Now,  clothed  in  blushes  by  the  painted  flowers, 
Tracks  on  their  cheeks  the  rosy-fingered  hours  ; 
Now,  lost  in  shades,  whose  dark  entangled  leaves 
Drip  at  the  noontide  from  their  pendent  eaves, 
Fades  into  gloom,  or  gleams  in  light  again 
From  every  dew-drop  on  the  jewelled  plain. 


A    METRICAL   ESSAY. 

We,  like  the  leaf,  the  summit,  or  the  wave, 
Reflect  the  light  our  common  nature  gave, 
But  every  sunbeam,  falling  from  her  throne, 
Wears,  on  our  hearts,  some  coloring  of  our  own ; 
Chilled  in  the  slave,  and  burning  in  the  free, 
Like  the  sealed  cavern  by  the  sparkling  sea ; 
Lost,  like  the  lightning  in  the  sullen  clod, 
Or  shedding  radiance,  like  the  smiles  of  God ; 
Pure,  pale  in  Virtue,  as  the  star  above, 
Or  quivering  roseate  on  the  leaves  of  Love ; 
Glaring  like  noontide,  where  it  glows  upon 
Ambition's  sands,  —  the  desert  in  the  sun ; 
Or  soft  suffusing  o'er  the  varied  scene 
Life's  common  coloring,  —  intellectual  green. 

Thus  Heaven,  repeating  its  material  plan, 
Arched  over  all  the  rainbow  mind  of  man ; 
But  he,  who,  blind  to  universal  laws, 
Sees  but  effects,  unconscious  of  their  cause,  — 
Believes  each  image  in  itself  is  bright, 
Not  robed  in  drapery  of  reflected  light,  — 
Is  like  the  rustic,  who,  amidst  his  toil, 
Has  found  some  crystal  in  his  meagre  soil, 
And,  lost  in  rapture,  thinks  for  him  alone 
Earth  worked  her  wonders  on  the  sparkling  stone, 


4  POETRY  ; 

Nor  dreams  that  Nature,  with  as  nice  a  line, 
Carved  countless  angles  through  the  boundless  mine. 

Thus  err  the  many,  who,  entranced  to  find 
Unwonted  lustre  in  some  clearer  mind, 
Believe  that  Genius  sets  the  laws  at  nought 
Which  chain  the  pinions  of  our  wildest  thought ; 
Untaught  to  measure,  with  the  eye  of  art, 
The  wandering  fancy  or  the  wayward  heart ; 
Who  match  the  little  only  with  the  less, 
And  gaze  in  rapture  at  its  slight  excess, 
Proud  of  a  pebble,  as  the  brightest  gem 
Whose  light  might  crown  an  emperor's  diadem. 

And,  most  of  all,  the  pure  ethereal  fire, 
Which  seems  to  radiate  from  the  poet's  lyre, 
Is  to  the  world  a  mystery  and  a  charm, 
An  jEgis  wielded  on  a  mortal's  arm, 
While  Keason  turns  her  dazzled  eye  away, 
And  bows  her  sceptre  to  her  subject's  sway ; 
And  thus  the  poet,  clothed  with  godlike  state, 
Usurped  his  Maker's  title  —  to  create  ; 
He,  whose  thoughts  differing  not  in  shape,  but  dress, 
What  others  feel,  more  fitly  can  express, 
Sits  like  the  maniac  on  his  fancied  throne, 
Peeps  through  the  bars,  and  calls  the  world  his  own. 


A    METRICAL   ESSAY. 

There  breathes  no  being  but  has  some  pretence 
To  that  fine  instinct  called  poetic  sense ; 
The  rudest  savage  roaming  through  the  wild, 
The  simplest  rustic,  bending  o'er  his  child, 
The  infant  listening  to  the  warbling  bird, 
The  mother  smiling  at  its  half-formed  word ; 
The  boy  uncaged,  who  tracks  the  fields  at  large, 
The  girl,  turned  matron  to  her  babe-like  charge  ; 
The  freeman,  casting  with  unpurchased  hand 
The  vote  that  shakes  the  turrets  of  the  land ; 
The  slave,  who,  slumbering  on  his  rusted  chain, 
Dreams  of  the  palm-trees  on  his  burning  plain ; 
The  hot-cheeked  reveller,  tossing  down  the  wine, 
To  join  the  chorus  pealing  "  Auld  lang  syne  "; 
The  gentle  maid,  whose  azure  eye  grows  dim, 
While  Heaven  is  listening  to  her  evening  hymn ; 
The  jewelled  beauty,  when  her  steps  draw  near 
The  circling  dance  and  dazzling  chandelier ; 
E'en  trembling  age,  when  Spring's  renewing  air 
Waves  the  thin  ringlets  of  his  silvered  hair ;  — 
All,  all  are  glowing  with  the  inward  flame, 
Whose  wider  halo  wreaths  the  poet's  name, 
While,  unembalmed,  the  silent  dreamer  dies, 
His  memory  passing  with  his  smiles  and  sighs  ! 


6  POETRY  J 

If  glorious  visions,  born  for  all  mankind, 
The  bright  auroras  of  our  twilight  mind ; 
If  fancies,  varying  as  the  shapes  that  lie 
Stained  on  the  windows  of  the  sunset  sky ; 
If  hopes,  that  beckon  with  delusive  gleams, 
Till  the  eye  dances  in  the  void  of  dreams  ; 
If  passions,  following  with  the  winds  that  urge 
Earth's  wildest  wanderer  to  her  farthest  verge  ;• 
If  these  on  all  some  transient  hours  bestow 
Of  rapture  tingling  with  its  hectic  glow, 
Then  all  are  poets ;  and,  if  earth  had  rolled 
Her  myriad  centuries,  and  her  doom  were  told, 
Each  moaning  billow  of  her  shoreless  wave 
Would  wail  its  requiem  o'er  a  poet's  grave  ! 

If  to  embody  in  a  breathing  word 
Tones  that  the  spirit  trembled  when  it  heard ; 
To  fix  the  image  all  unveiled  and  warm, 
And  carve  in  language  its  ethereal  form, 
So  pure,  so  perfect,  that  the  lines  express 
No  meagre  shrinking,  no  unlaced  excess  ; 
To  feel  that  art,  in  living  truth,  has  taught 
Ourselves,  reflected  in  the  sculptured  thought ;  • 
If  this  alone  bestow  the  right  to  claim 
The  deathless  garland  and  the  sacred  name ; 


A   METRICAL   ESSAY. 

Then  none  are  poets,  save  the  saints  on  high, 
Whose  harps  can  murmur  all  that  words  deny ! 

But  though  to  none  is  granted  to  reveal, 
In  perfect  semblance,  all  that  each  may  feel, 
As  withered  flowers  recall  forgotten  love, 
So,  warmed  to  life,  our  faded  passions  move 
In  every  line,  where  kindling  fancy  throws 
The  gleam  of  pleasures,  or  the  shade  of  woes. 

When,  schooled  by  time,  the  stately  queen  of  art 
Had  smoothed  the  pathways  leading  to  the  heart, 
Assumed  her  measured  tread,  her  solemn  tone, 
And  round  her  courts  the  clouds  of  fable  thrown, 
The  wreaths  of  heaven  descended  on  her  shrine, 
And  wondering  earth  proclaimed  the  Muse  divine ; 
Yet,  if  her  votaries  had  but  dared  profane 
The  mystic  symbols  of  her  sacred  reign, 
How  had  they  smiled  beneath  the  veil  to  find 
What  slender  threads  can  chain  the  mighty  mind ! 

Poets,  like  painters,  their  machinery  claim, 
And  verse  bestows  the  varnish  and  the  frame ; 
Our  grating  English,  whose  Teutonic  jar 
Shakes  the  racked  axle  of  Art's  rattling  car, 


8  POETRY ; 

Fits  like  mosaic  in  the  lines  that  gird 
Fast  in  its  place  each  many-angled  word ; 
From  Saxon  lips  Anacreon's  numbers  glide, 
As  once  they  melted  on  the  Teian  tide, 
And,  fresh  transfused,  the  Iliad  thrills  again 
From  Albion's  cliffs  as  o'er  Achaia's  plain ! 
The  proud  heroic,  with  its  pulse-like  beat, 
Kings  like  the  cymbals  clashing  as  they  meet ; 
The  sweet  Spenserian,  gathering  as  it  flows, 
Sweeps  gently  onward  to  its  dying  close, 
Where  waves  on  waves  in  long  succession  pour, 
Till  the  ninth  billow  melts  along  the  shore ; 
The  lonely  spirit  of  the  mournful  lay, 
Which  lives  immortal  as  the  verse  of  Gray, 
In  sable  plumage  slowly  drifts  along, 
On  eagle  pinion,  through  the  air  of  song; 
The  glittering  lyric  bounds  elastic  by, 
With  flashing  ringlets  and  exulting  eye, 
While  every  image,  in  her  airy  whirl, 
Gleams  like  a  diamond  on  a  dancing  girl ! 2 

Born  with  mankind,  with  man's  expanded  range 
And  varying  fates  the  poet's  numbers  change ; 
Thus  in  his  history  may  we  hope  to  find 
Some  clearer  epochs  of  the  poet's  mind, 


A   METRICAL   ES 


As  from  the  cradle  of  its  birth  we  trace, 
Slow  wandering  forth,  the  patriarchal  race. 


When  the  green  earth,  beneath  the  zephyr's  wing, 
Wears  on  her  breast  the  varnished  buds  of  Spring ; 
When  the  loosed  current,  as  its  folds  uncoil, 
Slides  in  the  channels  of  the  mellowed  soil ; 
When  the  young  hyacinth  returns  to  seek 
The  air  and  sunshine  with  her  emerald  beak ; 
When  the  light  snowdrops,  starting  from  their  cells. 
Hang  each  pagoda  with  its  silver  bells ; 
When  the  frail  willow  twines  her  trailing  bow 
With  pallid  leaves  that  sweep  the  soil  below  ; 
When  the  broad  elm,  sole  empress  of  the  plain, 
Whose  circling  shadow  speaks  a  century's  reign, 
Wreaths  in  the  clouds  her  regal  diadem,  — 
A  forest  waving  on  a  single  stem ;  — 
Then  mark  the  poet ;  though  to  him  unknown 
The  quaint-mouthed  titles,  such  as  scholars  own, 
See  how  his  eye  in  ecstasy  pursues 
The  steps  of  Nature  tracked  in  radiant  hues ; 
Nay,  in  thyself,  whate'er  may  be  thy  fate, 
Pallid  with  toil,  or  surfeited  with  state, 


10  POETRY ; 

Mark  how  thy  fancies,  with  the  vernal  rose, 
Awake,  all  sweetness,  from  their  long  repose ; 
Then  turn  to  ponder  o'er  the  classic  page, 
Traced  with  the  idyls  of  a  greener  age, 
And  learn  the  instinct  which  arose  to  warm 
Art's  earliest  essay,  and  her  simplest  form. 

To  themes  like  these  her  narrow  path  confined 
The  first-born  impulse  moving  in  the  mind  ; 
In  vales  unshaken  by  the  trumpet's  sound, 
Where  peaceful  Labor  tills  his  fertile  ground, 
The  silent  changes  of  the  rolling  years, 
Marked  on  the  soil,  or  dialled  on  the  spheres, 
The  crested  forests  and  the  colored  flowers, 
The  dewy  grottos  and  the  blushing  bowers, 
These,  and  their  guardians,  who,  with  liquid  names, 
Strephons  and  Chloes,  melt  in  mutual  flames, 
Woo  the  young  Muses  from  their  mountain  shade, 
To  make  Arcadias  in  the  lonely  glade. 

Nor  think  they  visit  only  with  their  smiles 
The  fabled  valleys  and  Elysian  isles  ; 
He  who  is  wearied  of  his  village  plain 
May  roam  the  Edens  of  the  world  in  vain. 
'T  is  not  the  star-crowned  cliff,  the  cataract's  flow, 
The  softer  foliage,  or  the  greener  glow, 


A   METRICAL   ESSAY.  11 

The  lake  of  sapphire,  or  the  spar-hung  cave, 
The  brighter  sunset,  or  the  broader  wave, 
Can  warm  his  heart  whom  every  wind  has  blown 
To  every  shore,  forgetful  of  his  own. 

Home  of  our  childhood !  how  affection  clings 
And  hovers  round  thee  with  her  seraph  wings  ! 
Dearer  thy  hills,  though  clad  in  autumn  brown, 
Than  fairest  summits  which  the  cedars  crown  ! 
Sweeter  the  fragrance  of  thy  summer  breeze 
Than  all  Arabia  breathes  along  the  seas  ! 
The  stranger's  gale  wafts  home  the  exile's  sigh, 
For  the  heart's  temple  is  its  own  blue  sky ! 

O  happiest  they,  whose  early  love  unchanged, 
Hopes  undissolved,  and  friendship  unestranged, 
Tired  of  their  wanderings,  still  can  deign  to  see 
Love,  hopes,  and  friendship,  centering  all  in  thee  ! 

And  thou,  my  village  !  as  again  I  tread 
Amidst  thy  living,  and  above  thy  dead  ; 
Though  some  fair  playmates  guard  with  chaster  fears 
Their  cheeks,  grown  holy  with  the  lapse  of  years  ; 
Though  with  the  dust  some  reverend  locks  may  blend, 
Where  life's  last  mile-stone  marks  the  journey's  end ; 


12  POETRY  ; 

On  every  bud  the  changing  year  recalls, 

The  brightening  glance  of  morning  memory  falls, 

Still  following  onward  as  the  months  unclose 

The  balmy  lilac  or  the  bridal  rose  ; 

And  still  shall  follow,  till  they  sink  once  more 

Beneath  the  snow-drifts  of  the  frozen  shore, 

As  when  my  bark,  long  tossing  in  the  gale, 

Furled  in  her  port  her  tempest-rended  sail ! 

What  shall  I  give  thee  ?     Can  a  simple  lay, 
Flung  on  thy  bosom  like  a  girl's  bouquet, 
Do  more  than  deck  thee  for  an  idle  hour, 
Then  fall  unheeded,  fading  like  the  flower  ? 
Yet,  when  I  trod,  with  footsteps  wild  and  free, 
The  crackling  leaves  beneath  yon  linden  tree, 
Panting  from  play,  or  dripping  from  the  stream, 
How  bright  the  visions  of  my  boyish  dream  ! 
Or,  modest  Charles,  along  thy  broken  edge, 
Black  with  soft  ooze  and  fringed  with  arrowy  sedge, 
As  once  I  wandered  in  the  morning  sun, 
With  reeking  sandal  and  superfluous  gun ; 
How  oft,  as  Fancy  whispered  in  the  gale, 
Thou  wast  the  Avon  of  her  flattering  tale  ! 
Ye  hills,  whose  foliage,  fretted  on  the  skies, 
Prints  shadowy  arches  on  their  evening  dyes, 


A   METRICAL   ESSAY.  13 

How  should  my  song,  with  holiest  charm,  invest 
Each  dark  ravine  and  forest-lifting  crest ! 
How  clothe  in  beauty  each  familiar  scene, 
Till  all  was  classic  on  my  native  green ! 

As  the  drained  fountain,  filled  with  autumn  leaves, 
The  field  swept  naked  of  its  garnered  sheaves ; 
So  wastes  at  noon  the  promise  of  our  dawn, 
The  springs  all  choking,  and  the  harvest  gone. 

Yet  hear  the  lay  of  one  whose  natal  star 
Still  seemed  the  brightest  wrhen  it  shone  afar ; 
Whose  cheek,  grown  pallid  with  ungracious  toil, 
Glows  in  the  welcome  of  his  parent  soil ; 
And  ask  no  garlands  sought  beyond  the  tide, 
But  take  the  leaflets  gathered  at  your  side. 


OUR  ancient  church  !  its  lowly  tower, 

Beneath  the  loftier  spire, 
Is  shadowed  when  the  sunset  hour 

Clothes  the  tall  shaft  in  fire ; 
It  sinks  beyond  the  distant  eye, 

Long  ere  the  glittering  vane, 
High  wheeling  in  the  western  sky, 

Has  faded  o'er  the  plain. 


14  POETRY ; 

Like  Sentinel  and  Nun,  they  keep 

Their  vigil  on  the  green ; 
One  seems  to  guard,  and  one  to  weep, 

The  dead  that  lie  between ; 
And  both  roll  out,  so  full  and  near, 

Their  music's  mingling  waves, 
They  shake  the  grass,  whose  pennoned  spear 

Leans  on  the  narrow  graves. 

The  stranger  parts  the  flaunting  weeds, 

Whose  seeds  the  winds  have  strown 
So  thick  beneath  the  line  he  reads, 

They  shade  the  sculptured  stone ; 
The  child  unveils  his  clustered  brow, 

And  ponders  for  a  while 
The  graven  willow's  pendent  bough, 

Or  rudest  cherub's  smile. 

But  what  to  them  the  dirge,  the  knell  ? 

These  were  the  mourner's  share ;  — 
The  sullen  clang,  whose  heavy  swell 

Throbbed  through  the  beating  air;  — 
The  rattling  cord,  —  the  rolling  stone,  — 

The  shelving  sand  that  slid, 
And,  far  beneath,  with  hollow  tone, 

Rung  on  the  coffin's  lid. 


A   METRICAL   ESSAY.  15 

The  slumberer's  mound  grows  fresh  and  green, 

Then  slowly  disappears ; 
The  mosses  creep,  the  gray  stones  lean, 

Earth  hides  his  date  and  years ; 
But,  long  before  the  once-loved  name 

Is  sunk  or  worn  away, 
No  lip  the  silent  dust  may  claim, 

That  pressed  the  breathing  clay. 

Go  where  the  ancient  pathway  guides, 

See  where  our  sires  laid  down 
Their  smiling  babes,  their  cherished  brides, 

The  patriarchs  of  the  town  ; 
Hast  thou  a  tear  for  buried  love  ? 

A  sigh  for  transient  power  ? 
All  that  a  century  left  above, 

Go,  read  it  in  an  hour ! 

The  Indian's  shaft,  the  Briton's  ball, 

The  sabre's  thirsting  edge, 
The  hot  shell,  shattering  in  its  fall, 

The  bayonet's  rending  wedge,  — 
Here  scattered  death;  yet, seek  the  spot, 

No  trace  thine  eye  can  see, 
No  altar,  —  and  they  need  it  not 

Who  leave  their  children  free  ! 


16  POETRY; 

Look  where  the  turbid  rain-drops  stand 

In  many  a  chiselled  square, 
The  knightly  crest,  the  shield,  the  brand 

Of  honored  names  were  there  ; — 
Alas !  for  every  tear  is  dried 

Those  blazoned  tablets  knew, 
Save  when  the  icy  marble's  side 

Drips  with  the  evening  dew. 

Or  gaze  upon  yon  pillared  stone,3 

The  empty  urn  of  pride ; 
There  stand  the  Goblet  and  the  Sun,  — 

What  need  of  more  beside  ? 
Where  lives  the  memory  of  the  dead, 

Who  made  their  tomb  a  toy  ? 
Whose  ashes  press  that  nameless  bed  ? 

Go,  ask  the  village  boy ! 

Lean  o'er  the  slender  western  wall, 

Ye  ever-roaming  girls ; 
The  breath  that  bids  the  blossom  fall 

May  lift  your  floating  curls, 
To  sweep  the  simple  lines  that  tell 

An  exile's  date  and  doom ; 
And  sigh,  for  where  his  daughters  dwell, 

They  wreath  the  stranger's  tomb. 


A   METRICAL   ESSAY.  17 

And  one  amid  these  shades  was  born, 

Beneath  this  turf  who  lies, 
Once  beaming  as  the  summer's  morn, 

That  closed  her  gentle  eyes  ;  — 
If  sinless  angels  love  as  we, 

Who  stood  thy  grave  beside, 
Three  seraph  welcomes  waited  thee, 

The  daughter,  sister,  bride  ! 

I  wandered  to  thy  buried  mound 

When  earth  was  hid  below 
The  level  of  the  glaring  ground, 

Choked  to  its  gates  with  snow, 
And  when  with  summer's  flowery  waves 

The  lake  of  verdure  rolled, 
As  if  a  Sultan's  white-robed  slaves 

Had  scattered  pearls  and  gold. 

Nay,  the  soft  pinions  of  the  air, 

That  lift  this  trembling  tone, 
Its  breath  of  love  may  almost  bear, 

To  kiss  thy  funeral  stone ;  — 
And,  now  thy  smiles  have  passed  away, 

For  all  the  joy  they  gave, 
May  sweetest  dews  and  warmest  ray 

Lie  on  thine  early  grave  ! 


18  POETRY ; 

When  damps  beneath,  and  storms  above, 

Have  bowed  these  fragile  towers, 
Still  o'er  the  graves  yon  locust-grove 

Shall  swing  its  Orient  flowers ;  — 
And  I  would  ask  no  mouldering  bust, 

If  e'er  this  humble  line, 
Which  breathed  a  sigh  o'er  other's  dust, 

Might  call  a  tear  on  mine. 


II. 


But  times  were  changed ;  the  torch  of  terror  came, 
To  light  the  summits  with  the  beacon's  flame  ; 
The  streams  ran  crimson,  the  tall  mountain  pines 
Rose  a  new  forest  o'er  embattled  lines  ; 
The  bloodless  sickle  lent  the  warrior's  steel, 
The  harvest  bowed  beneath  his  chariot  wheel ; 
Where  late  the  wood-dove  sheltered  her  repose, 
The  raven  waited  for  the  conflict's  close ; 
The  cuirassed  sentry  walked  his  sleepless  round 
Where  Daphne  smiled  or  Amaryllis  frowned ; 
Where  timid  minstrels  sung  their  blushing  charms, 
Some  wild  Tyrtasus  called  aloud,  "  To  arms  !  " 


A   METRICAL   ESSAY.  19 

When  Glory  wakes,  when  fiery  spirits  leap, 
Roused  by  her  accents  from  their  tranquil  sleep, 
The  ray  that  flashes  from  the  soldier's  crest, 
Lights,  as  it  glances,  in  the  poet's  breast ;  — 
Not  in  pale  dreamers,  whose  fantastic  lay 
Toys  with  smooth  trifles  like  a  child  at  play, 
But  men,  who  act  the  passions  they  inspire, 
Who  wave  the  sabre  as  they  sweep  the  lyre ! 

Ye  mild  enthusiasts,  whose  pacific  frowns 
Are  lost  like  dew-drops  caught  in  burning  towns, 
Pluck  as  ye  will  the  radiant  plumes  of  fame, 
Break  Caesar's  bust  to  make  yourselves  a  name, 
But,  if  your  country  bares  the  avenger's  blade 
For  wrongs  unpunished,  or  for  debts  unpaid, 
When  the  roused  nation  bids  her  armies  form, 
And  screams  her  eagle  through  the  gathering  storm ; 
When  from  your  ports  the  bannered  frigate  rides, 
Her  black  bows  scowling  to  the  crested  tides, 
Your  hour  has  past ;  in  vain  your  feeble  cry, 
As  the  babe's  wailings  to  the  thundering  sky  ! 

Scourge  of  mankind !  with  all  the  dread  array, 
That  wraps  in  wrath  thy  desolating  way, 
As  the  wild  tempest  wakes  the  slumbering  sea, 
Thou  only  teachest  all  that  man  can  be. 


V 


20  POETRY ; 

Alike  thy  tocsin  has  the  power  to  charm 
The  toil-knit  sinews  of  the  rustic's  arm, 
Or  swell  the  pulses  in  the  poet's  veins, 
And  bid  the  nations  tremble  at  his  strains. 

The  city  slept  beneath  the  moonbeam's  glance, 
Her  white  walls  gleaming  through  the  vines  of  France, 
And  all  was  hushed,  save  where  the  footsteps  fell, 
On  some  high  tower,  of  midnight  sentinel. 
But  one  still  watched ;  no  self-encircled  woes 
Chased  from  his  lids  the  angel  of  repose ; 
He  watched,  he  wept,  for  thoughts  of  bitter  years 
Bowed  his  dark  lashes,  wet  with  burning  tears  ; 
His  country's  sufferings  and  her  children's  shame 
Streamed  o'er  his  memory  like  a  forest's  flame, 
Each  treasured  insult,  each  remembered  wrong, 
Rolled  through  his  heart  and  kindled  into  song ; 
His  taper  faded  ;  and  the  morning  gales 
Swept  through  the  world  the  war-song  of  Marseilles  !4 

Now,  while  around  the  smiles  of  Peace  expand, 
And  Plenty's  wreaths  festoon  the  laughing  land ; 
While  France  ships  outward  her  reluctant  ore, 
And  half  our  navy  basks  upon  the  shore ; 
From  ruder  themes  our  meek-eyed  Muses  turn 
To  crown  with  roses  their  enamelled  urn. 


A   METRICAL   ESSAY.  21 

If  e'er  again  return  those  awful  days 
Whose  clouds  were  crimsoned  with  the  beacon's  hlaze, 
Whose  grass  was  trampled  by  the  soldier's  heel, 
Whose  tides  were  reddened  round  the  rushing  keel, 
God  grant  some  lyre  may  wake  a  nobler  strain, 
To  rend  the  silence  of  our  tented  plain  ! 
When  Gallia's  flag  its  triple  fold  displays, 
Her  marshalled  legions  peal  the  Marseillaise ; 
When  round  the  German  close  the  war-clouds  dim, 
Far  through  their  shadows  floats  his  battle-hymn ; 
When,  crowned  with  joy,  the  camps  of  England  ring, 
A  thousand  voices  shout,  "  God  save  the  King !  " 
When  victory  follows  with  our  eagle's  glance, 
Our  nation's  anthem  is  a  country  dance  ! 5 

Some  prouder  muse,  when  comes  the  hour  at  last, 
May  shake  our  hill-sides  with  her  bugle-blast ; 
Not  ours  the  task ;  but  since  the  lyric  dress 
Relieves  the  statelier  with  its  sprightliness, 
Hear  an  old  song,  which  some,  perchance,  have  seen 
In  stale  gazette,  or  cobwebbed  magazine. 
There  was  an  hour  when  patriots  dared  profane 
The  mast  that  Britain  strove  to  bow  in  vain ; 6 
And  one,  who  listened  to  the  tale  of  shame, 
Whose  heart  still  answered  to  that  sacred  name, 


22  POETRY ; 

Whose  eye  still  followed  o'er  his  country's  tides 
Thy  glorious  flag,  our  brave  Old  Ironsides  ! 
From  yon  lone  attic,  on  a  summer's  morn, 
Thus  mocked  the  spoilers  with  his  school-boy  scorn. 


AY,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar ;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more ! 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee  ;  — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea ! 


A   METRICAL   ESSAY.  23 

O  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave ; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 


III. 

When  florid  Peace  resumed  her  golden  reign, 
And  arts  revived,  and  valleys  bloomed  again ; 
While  War  still  panted  on  his  broken  blade, 
Once  more  the  Muse  her  heavenly  wing  essayed. 
Rude  was  the  song ;  some  ballad,  stern  and  wild, 
Lulled  the  light  slumbers  of  the  soldier's  child ; 
Or  young  romancer  with  his  threatening  glance 
And  fearful  fables  of  his  bloodless  lance, 
Scared  the  soft  fancy  of  the  clinging  girls, 
Whose  snowy  fingers  smoothed  his  raven  curls. 
But  when  long  years  the  stately  form  had  bent, 
And  faithless  memory  her  illusions  lent, 


24  POETRY ; 

So  vast  the  outlines  of  Tradition  grew, 
That  History  wondered  at  the  shapes  she  drew, 
And  veiled  at  length  their  too  ambitious  hues 
Beneath  the  pinions  of  the  Epic  Muse. 

Far  swept  her  wing ;  for  stormier  days  had  brought 
With  darker  passions  deeper  tides  of  thought. 
The  camp's  harsh  tumult  and  the  conflict's  glow, 
The  thrill  of  triumph  and  the  gasp  of  woe, 
The  tender  parting  and  the  glad  return, 
The  festal  banquet  and  the  funeral  urn,  — 
And  all  the  drama  which  at  once  uprears 
Its  spectral  shadows  through  the  clash  of  spears, 
From  camp  and  field  to  echoing  verse  transferred, 
Swelled  the  proud  song  that  listening  nations  heard. 

Why  floats  the  amaranth  in  eternal  bloom 
O'er  Ilium's  turrets  and  Achilles'  tomb  ? 
Why  lingers  fancy,  where  the  sunbeams  smile 
On  Circe's  gardens  and  Calypso's  isle  ? 
Why  follows  memory  to  the  gate  of  Troy 
Her  plumed  defender  and  his  trembling  boy  ? 
Lo  the  blind  dreamer,  kneeling  on  the  sand, 
To  trace  these  records  with  his  doubtful  hand ; 


A    METRICAL   ESSAY.  26 

In  fabled  tones  his  own  emotion  flows, 

And  other  lips  repeat  his  silent  woes ; 

In  Hector's  infant  see  the  babes  that  shun 

Those  deathlike  eyes,  unconscious  of  the  sun, 

Or  in  his  hero  hear  himself  implore, 

"  Give  me  to  see,  and  Ajax  asks  no  more  !  " 

Thus  live  undying  through  the  lapse  of  time 
The  solemn  legends  of  the  warrior's  clime ; 
Like  Egypt's  pyramid,  or  Pa3stum's  fane, 
They  stand  the  heralds  of  the  voiceless  plain  ; 
Yet  not  like  them,  for  Time,  by  slow  degrees, 
Saps  the  gray  stone,  and  wears  the  chiselled  frieze, 
And  Isis  sleeps  beneath  her  subject  Nile, 
And  crumbled  Neptune  strews  his  Dorian  pile ; 
But  Art's  fair  fabric,  strengthening  as  it  rears 
Its  laurelled  columns  through  the  mist  of  years, 
As  the  blue  arches  of  the  bending  skies 
Still  gird  the  torrent,  following  as  it  flies, 
Spreads,  with  the  surges  bearing  on  mankind, 
Its  starred  pavilion  o'er  the  tides  of  mind ! 

In  vain  the  patriot  asks  some  lofty  lay 
To  dress  in  state  our  wars  of  yesterday. 
The  classic  days,  those  mothers  of  romance, 
That  roused  a  nation  for  a  woman's  glance ; 


26  POETRY ; 

The  age  of  mystery  with  its  hoarded  power, 
That  girt  the  tyrant  in  his  storied  tower, 
Have  past  and  faded  like  a  dream  of  youth, 
And  riper  eras  ask  for  history's  truth. 

On  other  shores,  above  their  mouldering  towns, 
In  sullen  pomp  the  tall  cathedral  frowns, 
Pride  in  its  aisles,  and  paupers  at  the  door, 
Which  feeds  the  beggars  whom  it  fleeced  of  yore. 
Simple  and  frail,  our  lowly  temples  throw 
Their  slender  shadows  on  the  paths  below ; 
Scarce  steal  the  winds,  that  sweep  his  woodland  tracks, 
The  larch's  perfume  from  the  settler's  axe, 
Ere,  like  a  vision  of  the  morning  air, 
His  slight-framed  steeple  marks  the  house  of  prayer ; 
Its  planks  all  reeking,  and  its  paint  undried, 
Its  rafters  sprouting  on  the  shady  side, 
It  sheds  the  raindrops  from  its  shingled  eaves, 
Ere  its  green  brothers  once  have  changed  their  leaves. 

Yet  Faith's  pure  hymn,  beneath  its  shelter  rude, 
Breathes  out  as  sweetly  to  the  tangled  wood, 
As  where  the  rays  through  blazing  oriels  pour 
On  marble  shaft  and  tessellated  floor ;  — 
Heaven  asks  no  surplice  round  the  heart  that  feels, 
And  all  is  holy  where  devotion  kneels. 


A   METRICAL   E^Y,-  27 

Thus  on  the  soil  the  patriot's  knee  should  bend, 
Which  holds  the  dust  once  living  to  defend; 
Where'er  the  hireling  shrinks  before  the  free, 
Each  pass  becomes  "  a  new  Thermopyke  "  ! 
Where'er  the  battles  of  the  brave  are  won. 
There  every  mountain  "  looks  on  Marathon  " ! 

Our  fathers  live  ;  they  guard  in  glory  still 
The  grass-grown  bastions  of  the  fortressed  hill ; 
Still  ring  the  echoes  of  the  trampled  gorge, 
With  God  a?id  Freedom !  England  and  Saint  George ! 
The  royal  cipher  on  the  captured  gun 
Mocks  the  sharp  night-dews  and  the  blistering  sun ! 
The  red-cross  banner  shades  its  captor's  bust, 
Its  folds  still  loaded  with  the  conflict's  dust ; 
The  drum,  suspended  by  its  tattered  marge, 
Once  rolled  and  rattled  to  the  Hessian's  charge ; 
The  stars  have  floated  from  Britannia's  mast, 
The  redcoat's  trumpets  blown  the  rebel's  blast. 

Point  to  the  summits  where  the  brave  have  bled, 
Where  every  village  claims  its  glorious  dead ; 
Say,  when  their  bosoms  met  the  bayonet's  shock, 
Their  only  corslet  was  the  rustic  frock ; 
Say,  when  they  mustered  to  the  gathering  horn, 
The  titled  chieftain  curled  his  lip  in  scorn, 


28 


POETRY  ; 


Yet,  when  their  leader  bade  his  lines  advance, 

No  musket  wavered  in  the  lion's  glance ; 

Say,  when  they  fainted  in  the  forced  retreat, 

They  tracked  the  snow-drifts  with  their  Weeding  feet, 

Yet  still  their  banners,  tossing  in  the  blast, 

Bore  Ever  Ready,7  faithful  to  the  last, 

Through  storm  and  battle,  till  they  waved  again 

On  Yorktown's  hills  and  Saratoga's  plain  ! 

Then,  if  so  fierce  the  insatiate  patriot's  flame, 
Truth  looks  too  pale,  and  history  seems  too  tame, 
Bid  him  await  some  new  Columbiad's  page, 
To  gild  the  tablets  of  an  iron  age, 
And  save  his  tears,  which  yet  may  fall  upon 
Some  fabled  field,  some  fancied  Washington ! 


IV. 

But  once  again,  from  their  jEolian  cave, 
The  winds  of  Genius  wandered  on  the  wave. 
Tired  of  the  scenes  the  timid  pencil  drew, 
Sick  of  the  notes  the  sounding  clarion  blew; 
Sated  with  heroes  who  had  worn  so  long 
The  shadowy  plumage  of  historic  song ; 
The  new-born  poet  left  the  beaten  course, 
To  track  the  passions  to  their  living  source. 


A    METRICAL   ESSAY.  29 

Then  rose  the  Drama ;  —  and  the  world  admired 
Her  varied  page  with  deeper  thought  inspired ; 
Bound  to  no  clime,  for  Passion's  throb  is  one 
In  Greenland's  twilight  or  in  India's  sun ; 
Born  for  no  age,  —  for  all  the  thoughts  that  roll 
In  the  dark  vortex  of  the  stormy  soul, 
Unchained  in  song,  no  freezing  years  can  tame ; 
God  gave  them  birth,  and  man  is  still  the  same. 

So  full  on  life  her  magic  mirror  shone, 
Her  sister  Arts  paid  tribute  to  her  throne ; 
One  reared  her  temple,  one  her  canvass  warmed, 
And  Music  thrilled,  while  Eloquence  informed. 
The  weary  rustic  left  his  stinted  task 
For  smiles  and  tears,  the  dagger  and  the  mask ; 
The  sage,  turned  scholar,  half  forgot  his  lore, 
To  be  the  woman  he  despised  before  ; 
O'er  sense  and  thought  she  threw  her  golden  chain, 
And  Time,  the  anarch,  spares  her  deathless  reign. 

Thus  lives  Medea,  in  our  tamer  age, 
As  when  her  buskin  pressed  the  Grecian  stage ; 
Not  in  the  cells  where  frigid  learning  delves 
In  Aldine  folios  mouldering  on  their  shelves ; 
But  breathing,  burning  in  the  glittering  throng, 
Whose  thousand  bravos  roll  untired  along, 


30  POETRY  ; 

Circling  and  spreading  through  the  gilded  halls, 
From  London's  galleries  to  San  Carlo's  walls ! 

Thus  shall  he  live  whose  more  than  mortal  name 
Mocks  with  its  ray  the  pallid  torch  of  Fame ; 
So  proudly  lifted,  that  it  seems  afar 
No  earthly  Pharos,  but  a  heavenly  star ; 
Who,  unconfined  to  Art's  diurnal  bound, 
Girds  her  whole  zodiac  in  his  flaming  round, 
And  leads  the  passions,  like  the  orb  that  guides, 
From  pole  to  pole,  the  palpitating  tides  ! 


V. 

Though  round  the  Muse  the  robe  of  song  is  thrown, 
Think  not  the  poet  lives  in  verse  alone. 
Long  ere  the  chisel  of  the  sculptor  taught 
The  lifeless  stone  to  mock  the  living  thought ; 
Long  ere  the  painter  bade  the  canvass  glow 
With  every  line  the  forms  of  beauty  know  • 
Long  ere  the  Iris  of  the  Muses  threw 
On  every  leaf  its  own  celestial  hue ; 
In  fable's  dress  the  breath  of  gemu«  noured, 
And  warmed  the  shapes  that  later  times  adored. 


A   METRICAL   ESSAY.  31 

Untaught  by  Science  how  to  forge  the  keys, 
That  loose  the  gates  of  Nature's  mysteries ; 
Unschooled  by  Faith,  who,  with  her  angel  tread, 
Leads  through  the  labyrinth  with  a  single  thread, 
His  fancy,  hovering  round  her  guarded  tower, 
Rained  through  its  bars  like  Danae's  golden  shower. 

He  spoke ;  the  sea-nymph  answered  from  her  cave  : 
He  called ;  the  naiad  left  her  mountain  wave  : 
He  dreamed  of  beauty ;  lo,  amidst  his  dream, 
Narcissus  mirrored  in  the  breathless  stream ; 
And  night's  chaste  empress,  in  her  bridal  play, 
Laughed  through  the  foliage  where  Endymion  lay ; 
And  ocean  dimpled,  as  the  languid  swell 
Kissed  the  red  lip  of  Cytherea's  shell : 
Of  power,  —  Bellona  swept  the  crimson  field. 
And  blue-eyed  Pallas  shook  her  Gorgon  shield ; 
O'er  the  hushed  waves  their  mightier  monarch  drove, 
And  Ida  trembled  to  the  tread  of  Jove ! 

So  every  grace,  that  plastic  language  knows, 
To  nameless  poets  its  perfection  owes. 
The  rough-hewn  words  to  simplest  thoughts  confined, 
Were  cut  and  polished  in  their  nicer  mind ; 
Caught  on  their  edge,  imagination's  ray 
Splits  into  rainbows,  shooting  far  away ;  — 


32  POETRY ; 

From  sense  to  soul,  from  soul  to  sense,  it  flies, 
And  through  all  nature  links  analogies ; 
He  who  reads  right  will  rarely  look  upon 
A  better  poet  than  his  lexicon  ! 

There  is  a  race,  which  cold,  ungenial  skies 
Breed  from  decay,  as  fungous  growths  arise ; 
Though  dying  fast,  yet  springing  fast  again, 
Which  still  usurps  an  unsubstantial  reign. 
With  frames  too  languid  for  the  charms  of  sense, 
And  minds  worn  down  with  action  too  intense ; 
Tired  of  a  world  whose  joys  they  never  knew, 
Themselves  deceived,  yet  thinking  all  untrue ; 
Scarce  men  without,  and  less  than  girls  within. 
Sick  of  their  life  before  its  cares  begin  ;  — 
The  dull  disease,  which  drains  their  feeble  hearts, 
To  life's  decay  some  hectic  thrills  imparts, 
And  lends  a  force,  which,  like  the  maniac's  power, 
Pays  with  blank  years  the  frenzy  of  an  hour. 

And  this  is  Genius  !     Say,  does  Heaven  degrade 
The  manly  frame,  for  health,  for  action  made  ? 
Break  down  the  sinews,  rack  the  brow  with  pains, 
Blanch  the  bright  cheek,  and  drain  the  purple  veins, 
To  clothe  the  mind  with  more  extended  sway, 
Thus  faintly  struggling  in  degenerate  clay  ? 


A   METRICAL   ESSAY.  33 

No !  gentle  maid,  too  ready  to  admire, 
Though  false  its  notes,  the  pale  enthusiast's  lyre ; 
If  this  be  genius,  though  its  bitter  springs 
Glowed  like  the  morn  beneath  Aurora's  wings, 
Seek  not  the  source  whose  sullen  bosom  feeds 
But  fruitless  flowers,  and  dark,  envenomed  weeds. 

But,  if  so  bright  the  dear  illusion  seems, 
Thou  wouldst  be  partner  of  thy  poet's  dreams, 
And  hang  in  rapture  on  his  bloodless  charms, 
Or  die,  like  Raphael,  in  his  angel  arms ; 
Go,  and  enjoy  thy  blessed  lot,  —  to  share 
In  Cowper's  gloom,  or  Chatterton's  despair ! 

Not  such  were  they,  whom,  wandering  o'er  the  waves, 
I  looked  to  meet,  but  only  found  their  graves; 
If  friendship's  smile,  the  better  part  of  fame, 
Should  lend  my  song  the  only  wreath  I  claim, 
Whose  voice  would  greet  me  with  a  sweeter  tone, 
Whose  living  hand  more  kindly  press  my  own, 
Than  theirs,  —  could  Memory,  as  her  silent  tread 
Prints  the  pale  flowers  that  blossom  o'er  the  dead, 
Those  breathless  lips,  now  closed  in  peace,  restore, 
Or  wake  those  pulses  hushed  to  beat  no  more  ? 

3 


d4  POETRY ; 

Thou  calm,  chaste  scholar  ! 8  I  can  see  thee  now, 
The  first  young  laurels  on  thy  pallid  brow, 
O'er  thy  slight  figure  floating  lightly  down 
In  graceful  folds  the  academic  gown, 
On  thy  curled  lip  the  classic  lines,  that  taught 
How  nice  the  mind  that  sculptured  them  with  thought, 
And  triumph  glistening  in  the  clear  blue  eye, 
Too  bright  to  live,  —  but  oh,  too  fair  to  die  ! 

And  thou,  dear  friend,9  whom  Science  still  deplores, 
And  love  still  mourns,  on  ocean-severed  shores. 
Though  the  bleak  forest  twice  has  bowed  with  snow, 
Since  thou  wast  laid  its  budding  leaves  below, 
Thine  image  mingles  with  my  closing  strain, 
As  when  we  wandered  by  the  turbid  Seine, 
Both  blest  with  hopes,  which  revelled,  bright  and  free, 
On  all  we  longed,  or  all  we  dreamed  to  be ; 
To  thee  the  amaranth  and  the  cypress  fell,  — 
And  I  was  spared  to  breathe  this  last  farewell ! 

But  lived  there  one  in  unremembered  days, 
Or  lives  there  still,  who  spurns  the  poet's  bays  ? 
Whose  fingers,  dewy  from  Castalia's  springs, 
Rest  on  the  lyre,  yet  scorn  to  touch  the  strings  ? 


A   METRICAL   ESSAY.  35 

Who  shakes  the  senate  with  the  silver  tone 
The  groves  of  Pindus  might  have  sighed  to  own  ? 
Have  such  e'er  been  ?     Remember  Canning's  name  ! 
Do  such  still  live  ?     Let  "  Alaric's  Dirge  "  proclaim ! 

Immortal  Art !  where'er  the  rounded  sky 
Bends  o'er  the  cradle  where  thy  children  lie, 
Their  home  is  earth,  their  herald  every  tongue 
Whose  accents  echo  to  the  voice  that  sung. 
One  leap  of  Ocean  scatters  on  the  sand 
The  quarried  bulwarks  of  the  loosening  land ; 
One  thrill  of  earth  dissolves  a  century's  toil, 
Strewed  like  the  leaves  that  vanish  in  the  soil ; 
One  hill  o'erflows,  and  cities  sink  below, 
Their  marbles  splintering  in  the  lava's  glow ; 
But  one  sweet  tone,  scarce  whispered  to  the  air, 
From  shore  to  shore  the  blasts  of  ages  bear ; 
One  humble  name,  which  oft,  perchance,  has  borne 
The  tyrant's  mockery  and  the  courtier's  scorn, 
Towers  o'er  the  dust  of  earth's  forgotten  graves, 
As  once,  emerging  through  the  waste  of  waves, 
The  rocky  Titan,  round  whose  shattered  spear 
Coiled  the  last  whirlpool  of  the  drowning  sphere ! 


NOTES. 


Notel.    Page  1. 
"  Scenes  of  my  youth." 

This  poem  was  commenced  a  few  months  subsequently  to 
the  author's  return  to  his  native  village,  after  an  absence  of 
nearly  three  years. 

Note  2.    Page  8. 

A  few  lines,  perhaps  deficient  in  dignity,  were  introduced 
at  this  point,  in  delivering  the  poem,  and  are  appended  in 
this  clandestine  manner  for  the  gratification  of  some  of  my 
audience. 

How  many  a  stanza,  blushing  like  the  rose, 

Would  turn  to  fustian  if  resolved  to  prose ! 

How  many  an  epic,  like  a  gilded  crown, 

If  some  cold  critic  dared  to  melt  it  down, 

Roll  in  his  crucible  a  shapeless  mass, 

A  grain  of  gold-leaf  to  a  pound  of  brass ! 

Shorn  of  their  plumes,  our  moonstruck  sonneteers 

"Would  seem  but  jackdaws  croaking  to  the  spheres  ; 


38  POETRY;  A  METRICAL  ESSAY. 

Oar  gay  Lotharios,  with  their  Byron  curls, 
Would  pine  like  oysters  cheated  of  their  pearls  ! 

Wo  to  the  spectres  of  Parnassus'  shade, 
If  truth  should  mingle  in  the  masquerade. 
Lo,  as  the  songster's  pale  creations  pass, 
Off  come  at  once  the  "  Dearest "  and  "  Alas !  " 
Crack  go  the  lines  and  levers  used  to  prop 
Top-heavy  thoughts,  and  down  at  once  they  drop. 
Flowers  weep  for  hours;  Love,  shrieking  for  his  dove, 
Finds  not  the  solace  that  he  seeks  —  above. 
Fast  in  the  mire,  through  which  in  happier  time 
He  ambled  dryshod  on  the  stilts  of  rhyme, 
The  prostrate  poet  finds  at  length  a  tongue 
To  curse  in  prose  the  thankless  stars  he  sung. 

And  though,  perchance,  the  haughty  muse  it  shames, 
How  deep  the  magic  of  harmonious  names ! 
How  sure  the  story  of  romance  to  please, 
Whose  rounded  stanza  ends  with  Heloise  ! 
How  rich  and  full  our  intonations  ride 
"  On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side  "  ! 
But  were  her  name  some  vulgar  "  proper  noun," 
And  Pambamarca  changed  to  Belchertown, 
She  might  be  pilloried  for  her  doubtful  fame, 
And  no  enthusiast  would  arise  to  blame  ; 
And  he  who  outraged  the  poetic  sense, 
Might  find  a  home  at  Belchertown's  expense ! 


NOTES.  39 

The  harmless  boys,  scarce  knowing  right  from  wrong, 
Who  libel  others  and  themselves  in  song. 
When  their  first  pothooks  of  poetic  rage 
Slant  down  the  corners  of  an  album's  page, 
(Where  crippled  couplets  spread  their  sprawling  charms, 
As  half-taught  swimmers  move  their  legs  and  arms,) 
Will  talk  of"  Hesper  on  the  brow  of  eve," 
And  call  their  cousins  "  lovely  Genevieve  "  ;  — 
While  thus  transformed,  each  dear  deluded  maid, 
Pleased  with  herself  in  novel  grace  arrayed, 
Smiles  on  the  Paris  who  has  come  to  crown 
This  newborn  Helen  in  a  gingham  gown ! 


Note  3.     Page  16. 
"  Or  gaze  upon  yon  pillared  stone." 

The  tomb  of  the  V  ASS  ALL  family  is  marked  by  a  freestone 
tablet,  supported  by  five  pillars,  and  bearing  nothing  but  the 
sculptured  reliefs  of  the  Goblet  and  the  Sun, —  Vas-Sol — 
which  designated  a  powerful  family,  now  almost  forgotten. 

The  exile  referred  to  in  the  next  stanza  was  a  native  of 
Honfleur  in  Normandy. 

Note  4.     Page  20. 
"  Swept  through  the  world  the  war-song  of  Marseilles." 

The  music  and  words  of  the  Marseilles  Hymn  were  com 
posed  in  one  night. 


40  POETRY;  A  METRICAL  ESSAY. 

Note  5.     Page  21. 
"  Our  nation's  anthem  is  a  country  dance!" 

The  popular  air  of  "  Yankee  Doodle,"  like  the  dagger  of 
Hudibras,  serves  a  pacific  as  well  as  a  martial  purpose. 

Note  6.     Page  21. 
"  The  mast  that  Britain  strove  to  bow  in  vain." 

The  lyric  which  follows  was  printed  in  the  "  Boston  Daily 
Advertiser,"  at  the  time  when  it  was  proposed  to  break  up 
the  frigate  Constitution  as  unfit  for  service. 

Note  7.    Page  28. 

"Bore  Ever  Ready,  faithful  to  the  last." 
"Semper  paratus," —  a  motto  of  the  revolutionary  stand 
ards. 

Note  8.     Page  34. 
"Thou  calm,  chaste  scholar." 
Charles  Chauncy  Emerson  :  died  May  9th,  1836. 

Note  9.     Page  34. 
"And  thou,  dear  friend." 
James  Jackson,  Jr.,  M.  D. ;  died  March  29th,  1834. 


LYRICS. 


LYRICS. 


THE    LAST    READER. 


I  SOMETIMES  sit  beneath  a  tree, 

And  read  my  own  sweet  songs ; 

Though  nought  they  may  to  others  be, 
Each  humble  line  prolongs 

A  tone  that  might  have  passed  away, 

But  for  that  scarce  remembered  lay. 

I  keep  them  like  a  lock  or  leaf, 

That  some  dear  girl  has  given ; 

Frail  record  of  an  hour,  as  brief 
As  sunset  clouds  in  heaven, 

But  spreading  purple  twilight  still 

High  over  memory's  shadowed  hill. 


44  THE    LAST   READER. 

They  lie  upon  my  pathway  bleak, 

Those  flowers  that  once  ran  wild, 

As  on  a  father's  care-worn  cheek 
The  ringlets  of  his  child ; 

The  golden  mingling  with  the  gray, 

And  stealing  half  its  snows  away. 

What  care  I  though  the  dust  is  spread 
Around  these  yellow  leaves, 

Or  o'er  them  his  sarcastic  thread 
Oblivion's  insect  weaves ; 

Though  weeds  are  tangled  on  the  stream, 

It  still  reflects  my  morning's  beam. 

And  therefore  love  I  such  as  smile 
On  these  neglected  songs, 

Nor  deem  that  flattery's  needless  wile 
My  opening  bosom  wrongs  ; 

For  who  would  trample,  at  my  side, 

A  few  pale  buds,  my  garden's  pride  ? 

It  may  be  that  my  scanty  ore 

Long  years  have  washed  away, 

And  where  were  golden  sands  before, 
Is  nought  but  common  clay ; 

Still  something  sparkles  in  the  sun 

For  Memory  to  look  back  upon. 


THE    LAST   READER.  45 

And  when  my  name  no  more  is  heard, 

My  lyre  no  more  is  known, 
Still  let  me,  like  a  winter's  bird, 

In  silence  and  alone, 
Fold  over  them  the  weary  wing1 
Once  flashing  through  the  dews  of  spring. 

Yes,  let  my  fancy  fondly  wrap 

My  youth  in  its  decline, 
And  riot  in  the  rosy  lap 

Of  thoughts  that  once  were  mine, 
And  give  the  worm  my  little  store 
When  the  last  reader  reads  no  more ! 


OUR   YANKEE    GIRLS. 


LET  greener  lands  and  bluer  skies, 

If  such  the  wide  earth  shows, 
With  fairer  cheeks  and  brighter  eyes, 

Match  us  the  star  and  rose ; 
The  winds  that  lift  the  Georgian's  veil, 

Or  wave  Circassia's  curls, 
Waft  to  their  shores  the  sultan's  sail,  — 

Who  buys  our  Yankee  girls  ? 

The  gay  grisette,  whose  fingers  touch 

Love's  thousand  chords  so  well ; 
The  dark  Italian,  loving  much, 

But  more  than  one  can  tell ; 
And  England's  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  dame, 

Who  binds  her  brow  with  pearls ;  — 
Ye  who  have  seen  them,  can  they  shame 

Our  own  sweet  Yankee  girls  ? 


OUR   YANKEE    GIRLS.  47 

And  what  if  court  or  castle  vaunt 

Its  children  loftier  born  ?  — 
Who  heeds  the  silken  tassel's  flaunt 

Beside  the  golden  corn  ? 
They  ask  not  for  the  dainty  toil 

Of  ribboned  knights  and  earls, 
The  daughters  of  the  virgin  soil, 

Our  freeborn  Yankee  girls  ! 

By  every  hill  whose  stately  pines     . 

"Wave  their  dark  arms  above 
The  home  where  some  fair  being  shines, 

To  warm  the  wilds  with  love. 
From  barest  rock  to  bleakest  shore 

Where  farthest  sail  unfurls, 
That  stars  and  stripes  are  streaming  o'er,  — 

God  bless  our  Yankee  girls ! 


LA    GRISETTE. 


An  Clemence  !  when  I  saw  thee  last 

Trip  down  the  Kue  de  Seine, 
And  turning,  when  thy  form  had  past, 

I  said,  "  We  meet  again,"  — 
I  dreamed  not  in  that  idle  glance 

Thy  latest  image  came, 
And  only  left  to  memory's  trance 

A  shadow  and  a  name. 

The  few  strange  words  my  lips  had  taught 

Thy  timid  voice  to  speak, 
Their  gentler  signs,  which  often  brought 

Fresh  roses  to  thy  cheek, 
The  trailing  of  thy  long  loose  hair 

Bent  o'er  my  couch  of  pain, 
All,  all  returned,  more  sweet,  more  fair ; 

O  had  we  met  again ! 


LA   GRISETTE.  49 

I  walked  where  saint  and  virgin  keep 

The  vigil  lights  of  Heaven, 
I  knew  that  thou  hadst  woes  to  weep, 

And  sins  to  be  forgiven ; 
I  watched  where  Genevieve  was  laid, 

I  knelt  by  Mary's  shrine, 
Beside  me  low,  soft  voices  prayed ; 

Alas  !  but  where  was  thine  ? 

And  when  the  morning  sun  was  bright, 

When  wind  and  wave  were  calm, 
And  flamed,  in  thousand-tinted  light, 

The  rose  of  Notre  Dame, 
I  wandered  through  the  haunts  of  men, 

From  Boulevard  to  Quai. 
Till,  frowning  o'er  Saint  Etienne, 

The  Pantheon's  shadow  lay. 

In  vain,  in  vain ;  we  meet  no  more, 

Nor  dream  what  fates  befall ; 
And  long  upon  the  stranger's  shore 

My  voice  on  thee  may  call, 
When  years  have  clothed  the  line  in  moss, 

That  tells  thy  name  and  days, 
And  withered,  on  thy  simple  cross, 

The  wreaths  of  Pcre-la-Chaise  ! 

4 


AN   EVENING    THOUGHT. 


WRITTEN    AT    SEA. 


IF  sometimes  in  the  dark  blue  eye, 

Or  in  the  deep  red  wine, 
Or  soothed  by  gentlest  melody, 

Still  warms  this  heart  of  mine, 
Yet  something  colder  in  the  blood, 

And  calmer  in  the  brain, 
Have  whispered  that  my  youth's  bright  flood 

Ebbs,  not  to  flow  again. 

If  by  Helvetia's  azure  lake, 

Or  Arno's  yellow  stream, 
Each  star  of  memory  could  awake, 

As  in  my  first  young  dream, 
I  know  that  when  mine  eye  shall  greet 

The  hill-sides  bleak  and  bare, 
That  gird  my  home,  it  will  not  meet 

My  childhood's  sunsets  there. 


AN    EVENING    THOUGHT.  51 

0  when  love's  first,  sweet,  stolen  kiss 

Burned  on  my  boyish  brow, 
Was  that  young  forehead  worn  as  this  ? 

Was  that  flushed  cheek  as  now  ? 
Were  that  wild  pulse  and  throbbing  heart 

Like  these,  which  vainly  strive, 
In  thankless  strains  of  soulless  art, 

To  dream  themselves  alive  ? 

Alas !  the  morning  dew  is  gone, 

Gone  ere  the  full  of  day ; 
Life's  iron  fetter  still  is  on, 

Its  wreaths  all  torn  away ; 
Happy  if  still  some  casual  hour 

Can  warm  the  fading  shrine, 
Too  soon  to  chill  beyond  the  power 

Of  love,  or  song,  or  wine  ! 


A    SOUVENIR. 


YES,  lady !  I  can  ne'er  forget, 
That  once  in  other  years  we  met ; 
Thy  memory  may  perchance  recall 
A  festal  eve,  a  rose-wreathed  hall, 
Its  tapers'  blaze,  its  mirrors'  glance, 
Its  melting  song,  its  ringing  dance  ;  — 
Why,  in  thy  dream  of  virgin  joy, 
Shouldst  thou  recall  a  pallid  boy  ? 

Thine  eye  had  other  forms  to  seek, 

Why  rest  upon  his  bashful  cheek  ? 

With  other  tones  thy  heart  was  stirred, 

Why  waste  on  him  a  gentle  word  ? 

We  parted,  lady,  —  all  night  long 

Thine  ear  to  thrill  with  dance  and  song,  — 

And  I  —  to  weep  that  I  was  born 

A  thing  thou  scarce  wouldst  deign  to  scorn. 


A    SOUVENIR.  53 

And,  lady !  now  that  years  have  past, 
My  bark  has  reached  the  shore  at  last ; 
The  gales  that  filled  her  ocean  wing 
Have  chilled  and  shrunk  thy  hasty  spring, 
And  eye  to  eye,  and  brow  to  brow, 
I  stand  before  thy  presence  now ;  — 
Thy  lip  is  smoothed,  thy  voice  is  sweet, 
Thy  warm  hand  offered  when  we  meet. 

Nay,  lady !  't  is  not  now  for  me 
To  droop  the  lid  or  bend  the  knee. 
I  seek  thee,  —  oh,  thou  dost  not  shun ; 
I  speak,  —  thou  listenest  like  a  nun ; 
I  ask  thy  smile,  —  thy  lip  uncurls, 
Too  liberal  of  its  flashing  pearls ; 
Thy  tears,  —  thy  lashes  sink  again,  — 
My  Hebe  turns  to  Magdalen ! 

O  changing  youth  !  that  evening  hour 
Look  down  on  ours,  —  the  bud  —  the  flower ; 
Thine  faded  in  its  virgin  soil, 
And  mine  was  nursed  in  tears  and  toil ; 
Thy  leaves  were  withering,  one  by  one, 
While  mine  were  opening  to  the  sun ;  — 
"Which  now  can  meet  the  cold  and  storm, 
With  freshest  leaf  and  hardiest  form  ? 


54  A   SOUVENIR. 

Ay,  lady  !  that  once  haughty  glance 
Still  wanders  through  the  glittering  dance, 
And  asks  in  vain  from  others'  pride, 
The  charity  thine  own  denied ; 
And  as  thy  fickle  lips  could  learn 
To  smile  and  praise,  —  that  used  to  spurn, 
So  the  last  offering  on  thy  shrine 
Shall  be  this  flattering  lay  of  mine ! 


"QUI    VIVE!" 


"  QUI  VIVE  !  "     The  sentry's  musket  rings, 

The  channelled  bayonet  gleams  ; 
High  o'er  him,  like  a  raven's  wings 
The  broad  tri-colored  banner  flings 
Its  shadow,  rustling  as  it  swings 

Pale  in  the  moonlight  beams ; 
Pass  on !  while  steel-clad  sentries  keep 
Their  vigil  o'er  the  monarch's  sleep, 

Thy  bare,  unguarded  breast 
Asks  not  the  unbroken,  bristling  zone 
That  girds  yon  sceptred  trembler's  throne ;  • 

Pass  on,  and  take  thy  rest ! 

"  Qui  vive ! "     How  oft  the  midnight  air 

That  startling  cry  has  borne  ! 
How  oft  the  evening  breeze  has  fanned 
The  banner  of  this  haughty  land, 


56  "QUI   VIVE." 

O'er  mountain  snow  and  desert  sand, 

Ere  yet  its  folds  were  torn ! 
Through  Jena's  carnage  flying  red, 
Or  tossing  o'er  Marengo's  dead, 

Or  curling  on  the  towers 
Where  Austria's  eagle  quivers  yet, 
And  suns  the  ruffled  plumage,  wet 
With  battle's  crimson  showers ! 

"  Qui  vive  !  "     And  is  the  sentry's  cry, — 

The  sleepless  soldier's  hand,  — 
Are  these,  —  the  painted  folds  that  fly 
And  lift  their  emblems,  printed  high, 
On  morning  mist  and  sunset  sky,  — 

The  guardians  of  a  land  ? 
No  !     If  the  patriot's  pulses  sleep, 
How  vain  the  watch  that  hirelings  keep,  — 

The  idle  flag  that  waves, 
When  Conquest,  with  his  iron  heel, 
Treads  down  the  standards  and  the  steel 

That  belt  the  soil  of  slaves ! 


THE    WASP    AND    THE    HORNET. 


THE  two  proud  sisters  of  the  sea, 

In  glory  and  in  doom  !  — 
Well  may  the  eternal  waters  be 

Their  broad,  unsculptured  tomb ! 
The  wind  that  rings  along  the  wave, 

The  clear,  unshadowed  sun, 
Are  torch  and  trumpet  o'er  the  brave, 

Whose  last  green  wreath  is  won ! 

No  stranger-hand  their  banners  furled, 

No  victor's  shout  they  heard ; 
Unseen,  above  them  ocean  curled, 

Save  by  his  own  pale  bird ; 
The  gnashing  billows  heaved  and  fell ; 

Wild  shrieked  the  midnight  gale ; 
Far,  far  beneath  the  morning  swell 

Were  pennon,  spar,  and  sail. 


58  THE    WASP   AND   THE    HORNET. 

The  land  of  Freedom  !     Sea  and  shore 

Are  guarded  now,  as  when 
Her  ebbing  waves  to  victory  bore 

Fair  barks  and  gallant  men ; 
O  many  a  ship  of  prouder  name 

May  wave  her  starry  fold, 
Nor  trail,  with  deeper  light  of  fame, 

The  paths  they  swept  of  old ! 


Ur    '  *.:•    "T  T  V5 
-      •         .        •    ',       J  -t     i       .4    ./ 


FROM  A  BACHELOR'S  PRIVATE  JOURNAL. 


SWEET  Mary,  I  have  never  breathed 
The  love  it  were  in  vain  to  name  ; 

Though  round  my  heart  a  serpent  wreathed, 
I  smiled,  or  strove  to  smile,  the  same. 

Once  more  the  pulse  of  Nature  glows 
With  faster  throb  and  fresher  fire, 

While  music  round  her  pathway  flows 
Like  echoes  from  a  hidden  lyre. 

And  is  there  none  with  me  to  share 
The  glories  of  the  earth  and  sky  ? 

The  eagle  through  the  pathless  air 
Is  followed  by  one  burning  eye. 

Ah  no !  the  cradled  flowers  may  wake, 
Again  may  flow  the  frozen  sea, 

From  every  cloud  a  star  may  break,  — 
There  comes  no  second  Spring  to  me. 


60  FROM  A  BACHELOR'S  PRIVATE  JOURNAL. 

Go,  —  ere  the  painted  toys  of  youth 

Are  crushed  beneath  the  tread  of  years ; 

Ere  visions  have  been  chilled  to  truth, 

And  hopes  are  washed  away  in  tears. 

Go,  —  for  I  will  not  bid  thee  weep,  — 
Too  soon  my  sorrows  will  be  thine, 

And  evening's  troubled  air  shall  sweep 
The  incense  from  the  broken  shrine. 

If  Heaven  can  hear  the  dying  tone 

Of  chords  that  soon  will  cease  to  thrill, 

The  prayer  that  Heaven  has  heard  alone, 

May  bless  thee  when  those  chords  are  still 


STANZAS. 


STRANGE  !  that  one  lightly-whispered  tone 

Is  far,  far  sweeter  unto  me. 
Than  all  the  sounds  that  kiss  the  earth, 

Or  breathe  along  the  sea ; 
But,  lady,  when  thy  voice  I  greet, 
Not  heavenly  music  seems  so  sweet. 

I  look  upon  the  fair  blue  skies, 

And  nought  but  empty  air  I  see ; 

But  when  I  turn  me  to  thine  eyes, 
It  seemeth  unto  me 

Ten  thousand  angels  spread  their  wings 

Within  those  little  azure  rings. 

The  lily  hath  the  softest  leaf 

That  ever  western  breeze  hath  fanned, 
But  thou  shalt  have  the  tender  flower, 

So  I  may  take  thy  hand  ; 
That  little  hand  to  me  doth  yield 
More  joy  than  all  the  broidered  field. 


62  STANZAS. 

O  lady !  there  be  many  things 

That  seem  right  fair,  below,  above ; 

But  sure  not  one  among  them  all 
Is  half  so  sweet  as  love ;  — 

Let  us  not  pay  our  vows  alone, 

But  join  two  altars  both  in  one. 


THE   PHILOSOPHER   TO   HIS  LOVE. 


DEAREST,  a  look  is  but  a  ray 
Reflected  in  a  certain  way ; 
A  word,  whatever  tone  it  wear, 
Is  but  a  trembling  wave  of  air ; 
A  touch,  obedience  to  a  clause 
In  nature's  pure  material  laws. 

The  very  flowers  that  bend  and  meet, 
In  sweetening  others,  grow  more  sweet ; 
The  clouds  by  day,  the  stars  by  night, 
Inweave  their  floating  locks  of  light ; 
The  rainbow,  Heaven's  own  forehead's  braid, 
Is  but  the  embrace  of  sun  and  shade. 

How  few  that  love  us  have  we  found ! 
How  wide  the  world  that  girds  them  round  ! 
Like  mountain  streams  we  meet  and  part, 
Each  living  in  the  other's  heart, 
Our  course  unknown,  our  hope  to  be 
Yet  mingled  in  the  distant  sea. 


64  THE    PHILOSOPHER    TO    HIS    LOVE. 

But  Ocean  coils  and  heaves  in  vain, 
Bound  in  the  subtle  moonbeam's  chain ; 
And  love  and  hope  do  but  obey 
Some  cold,  capricious  planet's  ray, 
Which  lights  and  leads  the  tide  it  charms, 
To  Death's  dark  caves  and  icy  arms. 

Alas  !  one  narrow  line  is  drawn, 
That  links  our  sunset  with  our  dawn ; 
In  mist  and  shade  life's  morning  rose, 
And  clouds  are  round  it  at  its  close  ; 
But  ah  !  no  twilight  beam  ascends 
To  whisper  where  that  evening  ends. 

Oh  !  in  the  hour  when  I  shall  feel 
Those  shadows  round  my  senses  steal, 
When  gentle  eyes  are  weeping  o'er 
The  clay  that  feels  their  tears  no  more, 
Then  let  thy  spirit  with  me  be, 
Or  some  sweet  angel,  likest  thee ! 


L'INCONNUE. 


Is  thy  name  Mary,  maiden  fair  ? 

Such  should,  methinks,  its  music  be ; 
The  sweetest  name  that  mortals  bear, 

Were  best  befitting  thee ; 
And  she,  to  whom  it  once  was  given, 
Was  half  of  earth  and  half  of  heaven. 

I  hear  thy  voice,  I  see  thy  smile, 
I  look  upon  thy  folded  hair ; 

Ah  !  while  we  dream  not  they  beguile, 
Our  hearts  are  in  the  snare ; 

And  she,  who  chains  a  wild  bird's  wing, 

Must  start  not  if  her  captive  sing. 

So,  lady,  take  the  leaf  that  falls, 

To  all  but  thee  unseen,  unknown  ; 

When  evening  shades  thy  silent  walls, 
Then  read  it  all  alone ; 

In  stillness  read,  in  darkness  seal, 

Forget,  despise,  but  not  reveal ! 
5 


THE    STAR   AND    THE    WATER-LILY. 


THE  sun  stepped  down  from  his  golden  throne, 

And  lay  in  the  silent  sea, 
And  the  Lily  had  folded  her  satin  leaves, 

For  a  sleepy  thing  was  she ; 
What  is  the  Lily  dreaming  of  ? 

Why  crisp  the  waters  blue  ? 
See,  see,  she  is  lifting  her  varnished  lid ! 

Her  white  leaves  are  glistening  through ! 

The  Rose  is  cooling  his  burning  cheek 

In  the  lap  of  the  breathless  tide  ;  — 
The  Lily  hath  sisters  fresh  and  fair, 

That  would  lie  by  the  Rose's  side  ; 
He  would  love  her  better  than  all  the  rest, 

And  he  would  be  fond  and  true ;  — 
But  the  Lily  unfolded  her  weary  lids, 

And  looked  at  the  sky  so  blue. 


THE    STAR    AND   THE    WATER-LILY.  67 

Remember,  remember,  thou  silly  one, 

How  fast  will  thy  summer  glide, 
And  wilt  thou  wither  a  virgin  pale, 

Or  flourish  a  blooming  bride  ? 
"  0  the  Rose  is  old,  and  thorny,  and  cold, 

And  he  lives  on  earth,"  said  she ; 
"  But  the  Star  is  fair  and  he  lives  in  the  air, 

And  he  shall  my  bridegroom  be." 

But  what  if  the  stormy  cloud  should  come, 

And  ruffle  the  silver  sea  ? 
Would  he  turn  his  eye  from  the  distant  sky, 

To  smile  on  a  thing  like  thee  ? 
0  no,  fair  Lily,  he  will  not  send 

One  ray  from  his  far-off  throne ; 
The  winds  shall  blow  and  the  waves  shall  flow, 

And  thou  wilt  be  left  alone. 

There  is  not  a  leaf  on  the  mountain  top, 

Nor  a  drop  of  evening  dew, 
Nor  a  golden  sand  on  the  sparkling  shore, 

Nor  a  pearl  in  the  waters  blue, 
That  he  has  not  cheered  with  his  fickle  smile, 

And  warmed  with  his  faithless  beam,  — 
And  will  he  be  true  to  a  pallid  flower, 

That  floats  on  the  quiet  stream  ? 


THE    STAR    AND   THE    WATER-LILY. 

Alas  for  the  Lily  !  she  would  not  heed, 

But  turned  to  the  skies  afar, 
And  bared  her  breast  to  the  trembling  ray 

That  shot  from  the  rising  star ; 
The  cloud  came  over  the  darkened  sky, 

And  over  the  waters  wide  : 
She  looked  in  vain  through  the  beating  rain, 

And  sank  in  the  stormy  tide. 


ILLUSTRATION    OF  A  PICTURE. 

"A   SPANISH    GIRL    IN    REVERIE." 


SHE  twirled  the  string  of  golden  beads, 

That  round  her  neck  was  hung,  — 
My  grandsire's  gift ;  the  good  old  man 

Loved  girls  when  he  was  young  ; 
And,  bending  lightly  o'er  the  cord, 

And  turning  half  away, 
With  something  like  a  youthful  sigh, 

Thus  spoke  the  maiden  gray  : 

"  Well,  one  may  trail  her  silken  robe, 

And  bind  her  locks  with  pearls, 
And  one  may  wreathe  the  woodland  rose 

Among  her  floating  curls  ; 
And  one  may  tread  the  dewy  grass, 

And  one  the  marble  floor, 
Nor  half-hid  bosom  heave  the  less, 

Nor  broidered  corset  more  ! 


70  ILLUSTRATION    OF    A    PICTURE. 

"  Some  years  ago,  a  dark-eyed  girl 

Was  sitting  in  the  shade,  — 
There  's  something  brings  her  to  my  mind 

In  that  young  dreaming  maid,  — 
And  in  her  hand  she  held  a  flower, 

A  flower,  whose  speaking  hue 
Said,  in  the  language  of  the  heart, 

'  Believe  the  giver  true.' 

"  And,  as  she  looked  upon  its  leaves, 

The  maiden  made  a  vow 
To  wear  it  when  the  bridal  wreath 

Was  woven  for  her  brow ; 
She  watched  the  flower,  as,  day  by  day, 

The  leaflets  curled  and  died ; 
But  he  who  gave  it  never  came 

To  claim  her  for  his  bride. 

"  0  many  a  summer's  morning  glow 

Has  lent  the  rose  its  ray, 
And  many  a  winter's  drifting  snow 

Has  swept  its  bloom  away ; 
But  she  has  kept  that  faithless  pledge 

To  this,  her  winter  hour, 
And  keeps  it  still,  herself  alone, 

And  wasted  like  the  flower." 


ILLUSTRATION    OF   A   PICTURE.  71 

Her  pale  lip  quivered,  and  the  light 

Gleamed  in  her  moistening  eyes ;  — 
I  asked  her  how  she  liked  the  tints 

In  those  Castilian  skies  ? 
"  She  thought  them  misty,  —  't  was  perhaps 

Because  she  stood  too  near ;  " 
She  turned  away,  and  as  she  turned, 

I  saw  her  wipe  a  tear. 


THE    DYING    SENECA. 


HE  died  not  as  the  martyr  dies, 

Wrapped  in  his  living  shroud  of  flame ; 
He  fell  not  as  the  warrior  falls, 

Gasping  upon  the  field  of  fame ; 
A  gentler  passage  to  the  grave, 
The  murderer's  softened  fury  gave. 

Rome's  slaughtered  sons  and  blazing  piles 
Had  tracked  the  purple  demon's  path, 

And  yet  another  victim  lived 

To  fill  the  fiery  scroll  of  wrath ; 

Could  not  imperial  vengeance  spare 

His  furrowed  brow  and  silver  hair  ? 

The  field  was  sown  with  noble  blood, 

The  harvest  reaped  in  burning  tears, 

When,  rolling  up  its  crimson  flood, 

Broke  the  long-gathering  tide  of  years  ; 

His  diadem  was  rent  away, 

And  beggars  trampled  on  his  clay. 


THE    DYING   SENECA.  73 

None  wept,  —  none  pitied  ;  —  they  who  knelt 

At  morning  by  the  despot's  throne, 
At  evening  dashed  the  laurelled  bust, 

And  spurned  the  wreaths  themselves  had  strewn ; 
The  shout  of  triumph  echoed  wide, 
The  self-stung  reptile  writhed  and  died ! 


A    PORTRAIT. 


A  STILL,  sweet,  placid,  moonlight  face, 

And  slightly  nonchalant, 
Which  seems  to  claim  a  middle  place 

Between  one's  love  and  aunt, 
Where  childhood's  star  has  left  a  ray 

In  woman's  sunniest  sky, 
As  morning  dew  and  blushing  day 

On  fruit  and  blossom  lie. 

And  yet,  —  and  yet  I  cannot  love 

Those  lovely  lines  on  steel ; 
They  beam  too  much  of  heaven  above, 

Earth's  darker  shades  to  feel ; 
Perchance  some  early  weeds  of  care 

Around  my  heart  have  grown, 
And  brows  unfurrowed  seem  not  fair, 

Because  they  mock  my  own. 


A    PORTRAIT.  75 

Alas !  when  Eden's  gates  were  sealed, 

How  oft  some  sheltered  flower 
Breathed  o'er  the  wanderers  of  the  field, 

Like  their  own  bridal  bower ; 
Yet,  saddened  by  its  loveliness, 

And  humbled  by  its  pride, 
Earth's  fairest  child  they  could  not  bless,  — 

It  mocked  them  when  they  sighed. 


A    ROMAN    AQUEDUCT. 


THE  sun-browned  girl,  whose  limbs  recline 
When  noon  her  languid  hand  has  laid 

Hot  on  the  green  flakes  of  the  pine, 
Beneath  its  narrow  disk  of  shade ; 

As,  through  the  flickering  noontide  glare, 
She  gazes  on  the  rainbow  chain 

Of  arches,  lifting  once  in  air 

The  rivers  of  the  Roman's  plain ;  — 

Say,  does  her  wandering  eye  recall 

The  mountain-current's  icy  wave,  — 

Or  for  the  dead  one  tear  let  fall, 

Whose  founts  are  broken  by  their  grave  ? 

From  stone  to  stone  the  ivy  weaves 

Her  braided  tracery's  winding  veil, 

And  lacing  stalks  and  tangled  leaves 
Nod  heavy  in  the  drowsy  gale. 


A   ROMAN   AQUEDUCT.  77 

And  lightly  floats  the  pendent  vine, 

That  swings  beneath  her  slender  bow, 

Arch  answering  arch,  —  whose  rounded  line 
Seems  mirrored  in  the  wreath  below. 

How  patient  Nature  smiles  at  Fame  ! 

The  weeds,  that  strewed  the  victor's  way, 
Feed  on  his  dust  to  shroud  his  name, 

Green  where  his  proudest  towers  decay. 

See,  through  that  channel,  empty  now, 
The  scanty  rain  its  tribute  pours,  — 

Which  cooled  the  lip  and  laved  the  brow 
Of  conquerors  from  a  hundred  shores. 

Thus  bending  o'er  the  nation's  bier, 

Whose  wants  the  captive  earth  supplied, 

The  dew  of  Memory's  passing  tear 
Falls  on  the  arches  of  her  pride  ! 


THE  LAST  PROPHECY  OF  CASSANDRA, 


THE  sun  is  fading  in  the  skies 

And  evening  shades  are  gathering  fast ; 
Fair  city,  ere  that  sun  shall  rise, 

Thy  night  hath  come,  —  thy  day  is  past ! 

Ye  know  not,  —  but  the  hour  is  nigh ; 

Ye  will  not  heed  the  warning  breath ; 
No  vision  strikes  your  clouded  eye, 

To  break  the  sleep  that  wakes  in  death. 

Go,  age,  and  let  thy  withered  cheek 

Be  wet  once  more  with  freezing  tears ; 

And  bid  thy  trembling  sorrow  speak, 
In  accents  of  departed  years. 

Go,  child,  and  pour  thy  sinless  prayer 
Before  the  everlasting  throne ; 

And  He  who  sits  in  glory  there, 

May  stoop  to  hear  thy  silver  tone. 


THE    LAST   PROPHECY   OF    CASSANDRA.  79 

Go,  warrior,  in  thy  glittering  steel, 

And  bow  thee  at  the  altar's  side ; 
And  bid  thy  frowning  gods  reveal 

The  doom  their  mystic  counsels  hide. 

Go,  maiden,  in  thy  flowing  veil, 

And  bare  thy  brow,  and  bend  thy  knee ; 
When  the  last  hopes  of  mercy  fail, 

Thy  God  may  yet  remember  thee. 

Go,  as  thou  didst  in  happier  hours, 

And  lay  thine  incense  on  the  shrine ; 

And  greener  leaves,  and  fairer  flowers, 
Around  the  sacred  image  twine. 

I  saw  them  rise,  —  the  buried  dead,  — 

From  marble  tomb  and  grassy  mound  ; 

I  heard  the  spirits'  printless  tread, 
And  voices,  not  of  earthly  sound. 

I  looked  upon  the  quivering  stream, 

And  its  cold  wave  was  bright  with  flame ; 

And  wild,  as  from  a  fearful  dream, 

The  wasted  forms  of  battle  came. 


80  THE    LAST    PROPHECY    OF    CASSANDRA. 

Ye  will  not  hear,  —  ye  will  not  know,  — 
Ye  scorn  the  maniac's  idle  song ; 

Ye  care  not !  but  the  voice  of  woe 

Shall  thunder  loud,  and  echo  long. 

Blood  shall  be  in  your  marble  halls, 

And  spears  shall  glance,  and  fires  shall  glow; 
Ruin  shall  sit  upon  your  walls, 

But  ye  shall  lie  in  death  below. 

Ay,  none  shall  live  to  hear  the  storm 

Around  their  blackened  pillars  sweep ; 

To  shudder  at  the  reptile's  form, 

Or  scare  the  wild  bird  from  her  sleep. 


TO  A  CAGED    LION. 


POOR  conquered  monarch !  though  that  haughty  glance 
Still  speaks  thy  courage  unsubdued  by  time, 

And  in  the  grandeur  of  thy  sullen  tread 

Lives  the  proud  spirit  of  thy  burning  clime  ;  — 

Fettered  by  things  that  shudder  at  thy  roar, 

Torn  from  thy  pathless  wilds  to  pace  this  narrow  floor ! 

Thou  wast  the  victor,  and  all  nature  shrunk 
Before  the  thunders  of  thine  awful  wrath ; 

The  steel-armed  hunter  viewed  thee  from  afar, 
Fearless  and  trackless  in  thy  lonely  path ! 

The  famished  tiger  closed  his  flaming  eye, 

And  crouched  and  panted  as  thy  step  went  by ! 

Thou  art  the  vanquished,  and  insulting  man 

Bars  thy  broad  bosom  as  a  sparrow's  wing ; 

His  nerveless  arms  thine  iron  sinews  bind, 

And  lead  in  chains  the  desert's  fallen  king ; 

Are  these  the  beings  that  have  dared  to  twine 

Their  feeble  threads  around  those  limbs  of  thine  ? 


82  TO    A    CAGED    LION. 

So  must  it  be ;  the  weaker,  wiser  race, 

That  wields  the  tempest  and  that  rides  the  sea/ 

Even  in  the  stillness  of  thy  solitude 

Must  teach  the  lesson  of  its  power  to  thee ; 

And  thou,  the  terror  of  the  trembling  wild, 

Must  bow  thy  savage  strength,  the  mockery  of  a  child ! 


TO    MY    COMPANIONS. 


MINE  ancient  Chair !  thy  wide-embracing  arms 
Have  clasped  around  me  even  from  a  boy ; 

Hadst  thou  a  voice  to  speak  of  years  gone  by, 
Thine  were  a  tale  of  sorrow  and  of  joy, 

Of  fevered  hopes  and  ill-foreboding-  fears, 

And  smiles  unseen,  and  unrecorded  tears. 

And  thou,  my  Table  !  though  unwearied  Time 
Hath  set  his  signet  on  thine  altered  brow, 

Still  can  I  see  thee  in  thy  spotless  prime, 

And  in  my  memory  thou  art  living  now  ; 

Soon  must  thou  slumber  with  forgotten  things, 

The  peasant's  ashes  and  the  dust  of  kings. 

Thou  melancholy  Mug !  thy  sober  brown 

Hath  something  pensive  in  its  evening  hue, 

Not  like  the  things  that  please  the  tasteless  clown, 
With  gaudy  streaks  of  orange  and  of  blue ; 

And  I  must  love  thee,  for  thou  art  mine  own, 

Pressed  by  my  lip,  and  pressed  by  mine  alone. 


84  TO   MY   COMPANIONS. 

My  broken  Mirror !  faithless,  yet  beloved, 

Thou  who  canst  smile,  and  smile  alike  on  all, 

Oft  do  I  leave  thee,  oft  again  return, 
I  scorn  the  siren,  but  obey  the  call ; 

I  hate  thy  falsehood,  while  I  fear  thy  truth, 

But  most  I  love  thee,  flattering  friend  of  youth. 

Primeval  Carpet !  every  well-worn  thread 
Has  slowly  parted  with  its  virgin  dye ; 

I  saw  thee  fade  beneath  the  ceaseless  tread, 
Fainter  and  fainter  in  mine  anxious  eye ; 

So  flies  the  color  from  the  brightest  flower, 

And  heaven's  own  rainbow  lives  but  for  an  hour. 

I  love  you  all !  there  radiates  from  our  own 
A  soul  that  lives  in  every  shape  we  see ; 

There  is  a  voice,  to  other  ears  unknown, 

Like  echoed  music  answering  to  its  key. 

The  dungeoned  captive  hath  a  tale  to  tell, 

Of  every  insect  in  his  lonely  cell ; 

And  these  poor  frailties  have  a  simple  tone, 

That  breathes  in  accents  sweet  to  me  alone. 


THE    LAST    LEAF. 


I  SAW  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"  They  are  gone." 


86  THE    LAST    LEAF. 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said,  — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago,  — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here ; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 


THE    LAST    LEAF.  87 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring,  — 
Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  1  cling. 


TO  A  BLANK  SHEET  OF  PAPER. 


WAN-VISAGED  thing !  thy  virgin  leaf 

To  me  looks  more  than  deadly  pale, 

Unknowing  what  may  stain  thee  yet,  — 
A  poem  or  a  tale. 

Who  can  thy  unborn  meaning  scan  ? 

Can  Seer  or  Sibyl  read  thee  now  ? 
No,  —  seek  to  trace  the  fate  of  man 

Writ  on  his  infant  brow. 

Love  may  light  on  thy  snowy  cheek, 

And  shake  his  Eden-breathing  plumes ; 

Then  shalt  thou  tell  how  Lelia  smiles, 
Or  Angelina  blooms. 

Satire  may  lift  his  bearded  lance, 

Forestalling  Time's  slow-moving  scythe, 
And,  scattered  on  thy  little  field, 

Disjointed  bards  may  writhe. 


TO  A  BLANK  SHEET  OF  PAPER. 

Perchance  a  vision  of  the  night, 

Some  grizzled  spectre,  gaunt  and  thin, 

Or  sheeted  corpse,  may  stalk  along, 
Or  skeleton  may  grin ! 

If  it  should  be  in  pensive  hour 

Some  sorrow-moving  theme  I  try, 

Ah,  maiden,  how  thy  tears  will  fall, 
For  all  I  doom  to  die  ! 

But  if  in  merry  mood  I  touch 

Thy  leaves,  then  shall  the  sight  of  thee 
Sow  smiles  as  thick  on  rosy  lips 

As  ripples  on  the  sea. 

The  Weekly  press  shall  gladly  stoop 

To  bind  thee  up  among  its  sheaves  ; 

The  Daily  steal  thy  shining  ore, 
To  gild  its  leaden  leaves. 

Thou  hast  no  tongue,  yet  thou  canst  speak, 
Till  distant  shores  shall  hear  the  sound  ; 

Thou  hast  no  life,  yet  thou  canst  breathe 
Fresh  life  on  all  around. 


90          TO  A  BLANK  SHEET  OF  PAPER. 

Thou  art  the  arena  of  the  wise, 

The  noiseless  battle-ground  of  fame  ; 

The  sky  where  halos  may  be  wreathed 
Around  the  humblest  name. 

Take,  then,  this  treasure  to  thy  trust, 
To  win  some  idle  reader's  smile, 

Then  fade  and  moulder  in  the  dust, 

Or  swell  some  bonfire's  crackling  pile ! 


TO    AN   INSECT. 


I  LOVE  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice, 

"Wherever  thou  art  hid, 
Thou  testy  little  dogmatist, 

Thou  pretty  Katydid ! 
Thou  mindest  me  of  gentlefolks, — 

Old  gentlefolks  are  they, — 
Thou  say'st  an  undisputed  thing 

In  such  a  solemn  way. 

Thou  art  a  female,  Katydid ! 

I  know  it  by  the  trill 
That  quivers  through  thy  piercing  notes, 

So  petulant  and  shrill. 
I  think  there  is  a  knot  of  you 

Beneath  the  hollow  tree, — 
A  knot  of  spinster  Katydids, — 

Do  Katydids  drink  tea  ? 


92  TO   AN   INSECT. 

0  tell  me  where  did  Katy  live, 

And  what  did  Katy  do  ? 
And  was  she  very  fair  and  young1, 

And  yet  so  wicked,  too  ? 
Did  Katy  love  a  naughty  man, 

Or  kiss  more  cheeks  than  one  ? 

1  warrant  Katy  did  no  more 

Than  many  a  Kate  has  done. 

Dear  me  !  I  '11  tell  you  all  ahout 

My  fuss  with  little  Jane, 
And  Ann,  with  whom  I  used  to  walk 

So  often  down  the  lane, 
And  all  that  tore  their  locks  of  black, 

Or  wet  their  eyes  of  blue, — 
Pray  tell  me,  sweetest  Katydid, 

What  did  poor  Katy  do  ? 

Ah  no !  the  living  oak  shall  crash, 

That  stood  for  ages  still, 
The  rock  shall  rend  its  mossy  base 

And  thunder  down  the  hill, 
Before  the  little  Katydid 

Shall  add  one  word,  to  tell 
The  mystic  story  of  the  maid 

Whose  name  she  knows  so  well. 


TO    AN   INSECT.  93 

Peace  to  the  ever-murmuring  race  ! 

And  when  the  latest  one 
Shall  fold  in  death  her  feeble  wings 

Beneath  the  autumn  sun, 
Then  shall  she  raise  her  fainting  voice 

And  lift  her  drooping  lid, 
And  then  the  child  of  future  years 

Shall  hear  what  Katy  did. 


THE    DILEMMA. 


Now,  by  the  blessed  Paphian  queen, 
Who  heaves  the  breast  of  sweet  sixteen ; 
By  every  name  I  cut  on  bark 
Before  my  morning  star  grew  dark  ; 
By  Hymen's  torch,  by  Cupid's  dart, 
By  all  that  thrills  the  beating  heart ; 
The  bright  black  eye,  the  melting  blue, — 
I  cannot  choose  between  the  two. 

I  had  a  vision  in  my  dreams ;  — 
I  saw  a  row  of  twenty  beams ; 
From  every  beam  a  rope  was  hung, 
In  every  rope  a  lover  swung ; 
I  asked  the  hue  of  every  eye, 
That  bade  each  luckless  lover  die ; 
Ten  shadowy  lips  said,  heavenly  blue, 
And  ten  accused  the  darker  hue. 


THE    DILEMMA.  95 

I  asked  a  matron,  which  she  deemed 

With  fairest  light  of  beauty  beamed ; 

She  answered,  some  thought  both  were  fair, — 

Give  her  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 

I  might  have  liked  her  judgment  well, 

But,  as  she  spoke,  she  rung  the  bell, 

And  all  her  girls,  nor  small  nor  few, 

Came  marching  in, — their  eyes  were  blue. 

I  asked  a  maiden  ;  back  she  flung 
The  locks  that  round  her  forehead  hung, 
And  turned  her  eye,  a  glorious  one, 
Bright  as  a  diamond  in  the  sun, 
On  me,  until  beneath  its  rays 
I  felt  as  if  my  hair  would  blaze  ; 
She  liked  all  eyes  but  eyes  of  green ; 
She  looked  at  me ;  what  could  she  mean  ? 

Ah  !  many  lids  Love  lurks  between, 
Nor  heeds  the  coloring  of  his  screen  ; 
And  when  his  random  arrows  fly, 
The  victim  falls,  but  knows  not  why. 
Gaze  not  upon  his  shield  of  jet, 
The  shaft  upon  the  string  is  set ; 
Look  not  beneath  his  azure  veil, 
Though  every  limb  were  cased  in  mail. 


96  THE  'DILEMMA. 

Well,  both  might  make  a  martyr  break 
The  chain  that  bound  him  to  the  stake ; 
And  both,  with  but  a  single  ray, 
Can  melt  our  very  hearts  away ; 
And  both,  when  balanced,  hardly  seem 
To  stir  the  scales,  or  rock  the  beam ; 
But  that  is  dearest,  all  the  while, 
That  wears  for  us  the  sweetest  smile. 


MY    AUNT. 


MY  aunt !  my  dear  unmarried  aunt ! 

Long  years  have  o'er  her  flown  ; 
Yet  still  she  strains  the  aching  clasp 

That  binds  her  virgin  zone ; 
I  know  it  hurts  her,  —  though  she  looks 

As  cheerful  as  she  can ; 
Her  waist  is  ampler  than  her  life, 

For  life  is  but  a  span. 

My  aunt !  my  poor  deluded  aunt ! 

Her  hair  is  almost  gray ; 
Why  will  she  train  that  winter  curl 

In  such  a  spring-like  way  ? 
How  can  she  lay  her  glasses  down, 

And  say  she  reads  as  well, 
When,  through  a  double  convex  lens, 

She  just  makes  out  to  spell  ? 


98  MY   AUNT. 

Her  father,  —  grandpapa  !  forgive 

This  erring  lip  its  smiles,  — 
Vowed  she  should  make  the  finest  girl 

Within  a  hundred  miles; 
He  sent  her  to  a  stylish  school ; 

'T  was  in  her  thirteenth  June ; 
And  with  her,  as  the  rules  required, 

"  Two  towels  and  a  spoon." 

They  braced  my  aunt  against  a  board, 

To  make  her  straight  and  tall ; 
They  laced  her  up,  they  starved  her  down, 

To  make  her  light  and  small ; 
They  pinched  her  feet,  they  singed  her  hair, 

They  screwed  it  up  with  pins ;  — 
0  never  mortal  suffered  more 

In  penance  for  her  sins. 

So,  when  my  precious  aunt  was  done, 

My  grandsire  brought  her  back ; 
(By  daylight,  lest  some  rabid  youth 

Might  follow  on  the  track ;) 
"  Ah !  "  said  my  grandsire,  as  he  shook 

Some  powder  in  his  pan, 
"  What  could  this  lovely  creature  do 

Against  a  desperate  man  !  " 


MY   AUNT.  99 

Alas !  nor  chariot,  nor  barouche, 

Nor  bandit  cavalcade, 
Tore  from  the  trembling-  father's  arms 

His  all-accomplished  maid. 
For  her  how  happy  had  it  been  ! 

And  Heaven  had  spared  to  me 
To  see  one  sad,  unfathered  rose 

On  my  ancestral  tree. 


THE    TOADSTOOL. 


THERE  's  a  thing  that  grows  by  the  fainting  flower, 
And  springs  in  the  shade  of  the  lady's  bower ; 
The  lily  shrinks,  and  the  rose  turns  pale, 
When  they  feel  its  breath  in  the  summer  gale, 
And  the  tulip  curls  its  leaves  in  pride, 
And  the  blue-eyed  violet  starts  aside  ; 
But  the  lily  may  flaunt,  and  the  tulip  stare, 
For  what  does  the  honest  toadstool  care  ? 

She  does  not  glow  in  a  painted  vest, 
And  she  never  blooms  on  the  maiden's  breast ; 
But  she  comes,  as  the  saintly  sisters  do, 
In  a  modest  suit  of  a  Quaker  hue. 
And,  when  the  stars  in  the  evening  skies 
Are  weeping  dew  from  their  gentle  eyes, 
The  toad  comes  out  from  his  hermit  cell, 
The  tale  of  his  faithful  love  to  tell. 


THE    TOADSTOOL.  101 

O  there  is  light  in  her  lover's  glance, 
That  flies  to  her  heart  like  a  silver  lance ; 
His  breeches  are  made  of  spotted  skin, 
His  jacket  is  tight,  and  his  pumps  are  thin ; 
In  a  cloudless  night  you  may  hear  his  song, 
As  its  pensive  melody  floats  along, 
And,  if  you  will  look  by  the  moonlight  fair, 
The  trembling  form  of  the  toad  is  there. 

And  he  twines  his  arms  round  her  slender  stem, 
In  the  shade  of  her  velvet  diadem ; 
But  she  turns  away  in  her  maiden  shame, 
And  will  not  breathe  on  the  kindling  flame ; 
He  sings  at  her  feet  through  the  livelong  night, 
And  creeps  to  his  cave  at  the  break  of  light ; 
And  whenever  he  comes  to  the  air  above, 
His  throat  is  swelling  with  baffled  love. 


THE   MEETING   OF   THE   DRYADS.* 


IT  was  not  many  centuries  since, 

When,  gathered  on  the  moonlit  green, 

Beneath  the  Tree  of  Liberty, 

A  ring  of  weeping  sprites  was  seen. 

The  freshman's  lamp  had  long  been  dim, 
The  voice  of  busy  day  was  mute, 

And  tortured  melody  had  ceased 

Her  sufferings  on  the  evening  flute. 

They  met  not  as  they  once  had  met, 
To  laugh  o'er  many  a  jocund  tale ; 

But  every  pulse  was  beating  low, 

And  every  cheek  was  cold  and  pale. 

There  rose  a  fair  but  faded  one, 

Who  oft  had  cheered  them  with  her  song ; 
She  waved  a  mutilated  arm, 

And  silence  held  the  listening  throng. 

*  Written  after  a  general  pruning  of  the  trees   around   Harvard 
College. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  DRYADS.         103 

"  Sweet  friends,"  the  gentle  nymph  began, 
"  From  opening  bud  to  withering  leaf, 

One  common  lot  has  bound  us  all, 

In  every  change  of  joy  and  grief. 

"  While  all  around  has  felt  decay, 

We  rose  in  ever-living  prime, 
With  broader  shade  and  fresher  green, 

Beneath  the  crumbling  step  of  Time. 

"  When  often  by  our  feet  has  past 

Some  biped,  nature's  walking  whim, 

Say,  have  we  trimmed  one  awkward  shape, 
Or  lopped  away  one  crooked  limb  ? 

"  Go  on,  fair  Science ;  soon  to  thee 
Shall  Nature  yield  her  idle  boast ; 

Her  vulgar  fingers  formed  a  tree, 

But  thou  hast  trained  it  to  a  post. 

"  Go  paint  the  birch's  silver  rind, 

And  quilt  the  peach  with  softer  down  ; 

Up  with  the  willow's  trailing  threads, 

Off  with  the  sunflower's  radiant  crown ! 


104  THE    MEETING    OF    THE    DRYADS. 

"  Go,  plant  the  lily  on  the  shore, 

And  set  the  rose  among  the  waves, 

And  bid  the  tropic  bud  unbind 

Its  silken  zone  in  arctic  caves ; 

"  Bring  bellows  for  the  panting  winds, 
Hang  up  a  lantern  by  the  moon, 

And  give  the  nightingale  a  fife, 
And  lend  the  eagle  a  balloon ! 

"  I  cannot  smile,  —  the  tide  of  scorn, 

That  rolled  through  every  bleeding  vein, 

Comes  kindling  fiercer  as  it  flows 

Back  to  its  burning  source  again. 

"Again  in  every  quivering  leaf 
That  moment's  agony  I  feel, 

When  limbs,  that  spurned  the  northern  blast, 
Shrunk  from  the  sacrilegious  steel. 

"A  curse  upon  the  wretch  who  dared 
To  crop  us  with  his  felon  saw ! 

May  every  fruit  his  lip  shall  taste 
Lie  like  a  bullet  in  his  maw. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  DRYADS.          105 

"  In  every  julep  that  he  drinks, 

May  gout,  and  bile,  and  headache  he  ; 

And  when  he  strives  to  calm  his  pain, 
May  colic  mingle  with  his  tea. 

"  May  nightshade  cluster  round  his  path, 
And  thistles  shoot,  and  brambles  cling  ; 

May  blistering  ivy  scorch  his  veins, 

And  dogwood  burn,  and  nettles  sting. 

"  On  him  may  never  shadow  fall, 

When  fever  racks  his  throbbing  brow, 

And  his  last  shilling  buy  a  rope 

To  hang  him  on  my  highest  bough !  " 

She  spoke  ;  —  the  morning's  herald  beam 
Sprang  from  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 

And  every  mangled  sprite  returned 
In  sadness  to  her  wounded  tree.^ 


*  A  little  poem,  on  a  similar  occasion,  may  be  found  in  the  works 
of  Swift,  from  which,  perhaps,  the  idea  was  borrowed  ;  although  I 
was  as  much  surprised  as  amused  to  meet  with  it  some  time  after 
writing  the  preceding  lines. 


THE    MYSTERIOUS    VISITER. 


THERE  was  a  sound  of  hurrying  feet, 
A  tramp  on  echoing  stairs, 

There  was  a  rush  along  the  aisles,  — 
It  was  the  hour  of  prayers. 

And  on,  like  Ocean's  midnight  wave, 
The  current  rolled  along, 

When,  suddenly,  a  stranger  form 
Was  seen  amidst  the  throng. 

He  was  a  dark  and  swarthy  man, 

That  uninvited  guest ; 
A  faded  coat  of  bottle  green 

Was  buttoned  round  his  breast. 

There  was  not  one  among  them  all 
Could  say  from  whence  he  came ; 

Nor  beardless  boy,  nor  ancient  man, 
Could  tell  that  stranger's  name. 


THE    MYSTERIOUS    VISITER.  107 

All  silent  as  the  sheeted  dead, 

In  spite  of  sneer  and  frown, 
Fast  by  a  gray-haired  senior's  side 

He  sat  him  boldly  down. 

There  was  a  look  of  horror  flashed 

From  out  the  tutor's  eyes ; 
"When  all  around  him  rose  to  pray, 

The  stranger  did  not  rise  ! 

A  murmur  broke  along  the  crowd, 

The  prayer  was  at  an  end ; 
With  ringing  heels  and  measured  tread 

A  hundred  forms  descend. 

Through  sounding  aisle,  o'er  grating  stair, 

The  long  procession  poured, 
Till  all  were  gathered  on  the  seats 

Around  the  Commons  board. 

That  fearful  stranger !  down  he  sat, 

Unasked,  yet  undismayed ; 
And  on  his  lip  a  rising  smile 

Of  scorn  or  pleasure  played. 


108  THE    MYSTERIOUS    VISTTER. 

He  took  his  hat  and  hung  it  up, 

With  slow  but  earnest  air ; 
He  stripped  his  coat  from  off  his  back, 

And  placed  it  on  a  chair. 

Then  from  his  nearest  neighbor's  side 

A  knife  and  plate  he  drew ; 
And,  reaching  out  his  hand  again, 

He  took  his  teacup  too. 

How  fled  the  sugar  from  the  bowl ! 

How  sunk  the  azure  cream  ! 
They  vanished  like  the  shapes  that  float 

Upon  a  summer's  dream. 

A  long,  long  draught,  —  an  outstretched  hand, 

And  crackers,  toast,  and  tea, 
They  faded  from  the  stranger's  touch 

Like  dew  upon  the  sea. 

Then  clouds  were  dark  on  many  a  brow, 

Fear  sat  upon  their  souls, 
And,  in  a  bitter  agony, 

They  clasped  their  buttered  rolls. 


THE    MYSTERIOUS    VISITER.  109 

A  whisper  trembled  through  the  crowd,  — 

Who  could  the  stranger  be  ? 
And  some  were  silent,  for  they  thought 

A  cannibal  was  he. 

What  if  the  creature  should  arise,  — 

For  he  was  stout  and  tall,  — 
And  swallow  down  a  sophomore, 

Coat,  crow's-foot,  cap,  and  all ! 

All  sullenly  the  stranger  rose  ; 

They  sat  in  mute  despair ; 
He  took  his  hat  from  off  the  peg, 

His  coat  from  off  the  chair. 

Four  freshmen  fainted  on  the  seat, 

Six  swooned  upon  the  floor ; 
Yet  on  the  fearful  being  passed, 

And  shut  the  chapel  door. 

There  is  full  many  a  starving  man, 

That  walks  in  bottle  green, 
But  never  more  that  hungry  one 

In  Commons-hall  was  seen. 


110  THE    MYSTERIOUS   VISITER. 

Yet  often  at  the  sunset  hour, 

When  tolls  the  evening  bell, 

The  freshman  lingers  on  the  stepSj 
That  frightful  tale  to  tell. 


THE    SPECTRE    PIG. 


A    BALLAD. 


IT  was  the  stalwart  butcher  man, 
That  knit  his  swarthy  brow, 

And  said  the  gentle  Pig  must  die, 
And  sealed  it  with  a  vow. 

And  oh !  it  was  the  gentle  Pig 

Lay  stretched  upon  the  ground, 

And  ah !  it  was  the  cruel  knife 
His  little  heart  that  found. 

They  took  him  then,  those  wicked  men, 
They  trailed  him  all  along ; 

They  put  a  stick  between  his  lips, 
And  through  his  heels  a  thong ; 


112  THE    SPECTRE    PIG. 

And  round  and  round  an  oaken  beam 
A  hempen  cord  they  flung, 

And,  like  a  mighty  pendulum, 
All  solemnly  he  swung ! 

Now  say  thy  prayers,  thou  sinful  man, 
And  think  what  thou  hast  done, 

And  read  thy  catechism  well, 
Thou  bloody-minded  one ; 

For  if  his  sprite  should  walk  by  night, 

It  better  were  for  thee, 
That  thou  wrert  mouldering  in  the  ground, 

Or  bleaching  in  the  sea. 

It  was  the  savage  butcher  then, 
That  made  a  mock  of  sin, 

And  s\vore  a  very  wicked  oath, 
He  did  not  care  a  pin. 

It  was  the  butcher's  young'est  son,  — 
His  voice  was  broke  with  sighs, 

And  with  his  pocket  handkerchief 
He  wiped  his  little  eyes ; 


THE    SPECTRE    PIG.  113 

All  young  and  ignorant  was  he, 

But  innocent  and  mild, 
And,  in  his  soft  simplicity, 

Out  spoke  the  tender  child  ;  — 

"  O  father,  father,  list  to  me ; 

The  Pig  is  deadly  sick, 
And  men  have  hung  him  by  his  heels, 

And  fed  him  with  a  stick." 

It  was  the  bloody  butcher  then, 

That  laughed  as  he  would  die, 
Yet  did  he  soothe  the  sorrowing  child, 

And  bid  him  not  to  cry ;  — 

"  0  Nathan,  Nathan,  what 's  a  Pig, 

That  thou  shouldst  weep  and  wail  ? 

Come,  bear  thee  like  a  butcher's  child, 
And  thou  shalt  have  his  tail !  " 

It  was  the  butcher's  daughter  then, 

So  slender  and  so  fair, 
That  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break, 

And  tore  her  yellow  hair ; 


114  THE    SPECTRE    PIG. 

And  thus  she  spoke  in  thrilling  tone,  — 
Fast  fell  the  tear-drops  big  ;  — 

"  Ah  !  woe  is  me  !     Alas  !  Alas  ! 
The  Pig  !  The  Pig !  The  Pig  !  " 

Then  did  her  wicked  father's  lips 
Make  merry  with  her  woe, 

And  call  her  many  a  naughty  name, 
Because  she  whimpered  so. 

Ye  need  not  weep,  ye  gentle  ones, 
In  vain  your  tears  are  shed, 

Ye  cannot  wash  his  crimson  hand, 
Ye  cannot  soothe  the  dead. 

The  bright  sun  folded  on  his  breast 
His  robes  of  rosy  flame, 

And  softly  over  all  the  west 

The  shades  of  evening  came. 

He  slept,  and  troops  of  murdered  Pigs 
"Were  busy  with  his  dreams  ; 

Loud  rang  their  wild,  unearthly  shrieks, 
Wide  yawned  their  mortal  seams. 


THE    SPECTRE    PIG.  115 

The  clock  struck  twelve  ;  the  Dead  hath  heard ; 

He  opened  both  his  eyes, 
And  sullenly  he  shook  his  tail 

To  lash  the  feeding  flies. 

One  quiver  of  the  hempen  cord,  — 

One  struggle  and  one  bound,  — 
With  stiffened  limb  and  leaden  eye, 

The  Pig  was  on  the  ground  ! 

And  straight  towards  the  sleeper's  house 

His  fearful  way  he  wended  ; 
And  hooting  owl,  and  hovering  bat, 

On  midnight  wing  attended. 

Back  flew  the  bolt,  up  rose  the  latch, 

And  open  swung  the  door, 
And  little  mincing  feet  were  heard 

Pat,  pat  along  the  floor. 

Two  hoofs  upon  the  sanded  floor, 

And  two  upon  the  bed  ; 
And  they  are  breathing  side  by  side, 

The  living  and  the  dead  ! 


116  THE    SPECTRE    PIG. 

"  Now  wake,  now  wake,  thou  butcher  man ! 

What  makes  thy  cheek  so  pale  ? 
Take  hold  !  take  hold  !  thou  dost  not  fear 

To  clasp  a  spectre's  tail  ?  " 

Untwisted  every  winding  coil ; 

The  shuddering  wretch  took  hold, 
All  like  an  icicle  it  seemed, 

So  tapering  and  so  cold. 

"  Thou  com'st  with  me,  thou  hutcher  man  !  " 
He  strives  to  loose  his  grasp, 

3ut,  faster  than  the  clinging  vine, 
Those  twining  spirals  clasp. 

And  open,  open  swung  the  door, 

And,  fleeter  than  the  wind, 
The  shadowy  spectre  swept  before, 

The  butcher  trailed  behind. 

Fast  fled  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
And  morn  rose  faint  and  dim  ; 

They  called  full  loud,  they  knocked  full  long, 
They  did  not  waken  him. 


THE    SPECTRE    PIG.  117 

Straight,  straight  towards  that  oaken  beam, 

A  trampled  pathway  ran  ; 
A  ghastly  shape  was  swinging  there,  — 

It  was  the  butcher  man. 


LINES    BY    A    CLERK. 


OH  !  I  did  love  her  dearly, 

And  gave  her  toys  and  rings, 
And  I  thought  she  meant  sincerely, 

When  she  took  my  pretty  things  ; 
But  her  heart  has  grown  as  icy 

As  a  fountain  in  the  fall, 
And  her  love,  that  was  so  spicy, 

It  did  not  last  at  all. 

I  gave  her  once  a  locket, 

It  was  filled  with  my  own  hair, 
And  she  put  it  in  her  pocket 

With  very  special  care. 
But  a  jeweller  has  got  it,  — 

He  offered  it  to  me, 
And  another  that  is  not  it 

Around  her  neck  I  see. 


LINES   BY   A   CLERK.  119 

For  my  cooings  and  my  billings 

I  do  not  now  complain, 
But  my  dollars  and  my  shillings 

Will  never  come  again  ; 
They  were  earned  with  toil  and  sorrow, 

But  I  never  told  her  that, 
And  now  I  have  to  borrow, 

And  want  another  hat. 

Think,  think,  thou  cruel  Emma, 
When  thou  shalt  hear  my  Woe, 

And  know  my  sad  dilemma, 
That  thou  hast  made  it  so. 

See,  see  my  beaver  rusty, 

Look,  look  upon  this  hole, 

This  coat  is  dim  and  dusty ; 

0  let  it  rend  thy  soul ! 

Before  the  gates  of  fashion 

1  daily  bent  my  knee, 

But  I  sought  the  shrine  of  passion, 

And  found  my  idol,  —  thee  ; 
Though  never  love  intenser 

Had  bowed  a  soul  before  it, 
Thine  eye  was  on  the  censer, 

And  not  the  hand  that  bore  it. 


REFLECTIONS  OF  A  PROUD  PEDESTRIAN. 


I  SAW  the  curl  of  his  waving  lash, 

And  the  glance  of  his  knowing  eye, 

And  I  knew  that  he  thought  he  was  cutting  a  dash, 
As  his  steed  went  thundering  by. 

And  he  may  ride  in  the  rattling  gig, 

Or  flourish  the  Stanhope  gay, 
And  dream  that  he  looks  exceeding  big 

To  the  people  that  walk  in  the  way ; 

But  he  shall  think,  when  the  night  is  still, 
On  the  stable-boy's  gathering  numbers, 

And  the  ghost  of  many  a  veteran  bill 
Shall  hover  around  his  slumbers  ; 

The  ghastly  dun  shall  worry  his  sleep, 
And  constables  cluster  around  him, 

And  he  shall  creep  from  the  wood-hole  deep 
Where  their  spectre  eyes  have  found  him  ! 


REFLECTIONS    OF   A   PROUD   PEDESTRIAN.  121 

Ay  !  gather  your  reins,  and  crack  your  thong, 

And  bid  your  steed  go  faster  ; 
He  does  not  know,  as  he  scrambles  along, 

That  he  has  a  fool  for  his  master ; 

And  hurry  away  on  your  lonely  ride, 

Nor  deign  from  the  mire  to  save  me ; 

I  will  paddle  it  stoutly  at  your  side 

With  the  tandem  that  nature  gave  me  ! 


THE    POET'S    LOT. 


WHAT  is  a  poet's  love  ?  — 
To  write  a  girl  a  sonnet, 

To  get  a  ring,  or  some  such  thing, 
And  fustianize  upon  it. 

What  is  a  poet's  fame  ?  — 

Sad  hints  about  his  reason, 

And  sadder  praise  from  garreteers, 
To  be  returned  in  season. 

Where  go  the  poet's  lines  ?  — 
Answer,  ye  evening  tapers  ! 

Ye  auburn  locks,  ye  golden  curls. 
Speak  from  your  folded  papers  ! 

Child  of  the  ploughshare,  smile ; 

Boy  of  the  counter,  grieve  not, 
Though  muses  round  thy  trundle-bed 

Their  broidered  tissue  weave  not. 


THE  POET'S  LOT.  123 

The  poet's  future  holds 

No  civic  wreath  above  him  ; 
Nor  slated  roof,  nor  varnished  chaise, 

Nor  wife  nor  child  to  love  him. 

Maid  of  the  village  inn, 

Who  workest  woe  on  satin, 
(The  grass  in  black,  the  graves  in  green, 

The  epitaph  in  Latin,) 

Trust  not  to  them  who  say 

In  stanzas,  they  adore  thee  ; 
O  rather  sleep  in  church-yard  clay, 

With  urns  and  cherubs  o'er  thee  ! 


DAILY    TRIALS 


BY   A  SENSITIVE  MAN. 


O  THERE  are  times 

When  all  this  fret  and  tumult  that  we  hear 
Do  seem  more  stale  than  to  the  sexton's  ear 

His  own  dull  chimes. 

Ding  dong  !  ding  dong  ! 
The  world  is  in  a  simmer  like  a  sea 
Over  a  pent  volcano,  —  woe  is  me 

All  the  day  long  ! 

From  crib  to  shroud  ! 
Nurse  o'er  our  cradles  screameth  lullaby, 
And  friends  in  boots  tramp  round  us  as  we  die, 

Snuffling  aloud. 


DAILY   TRIALS.  125 

At  morning's  call 

The  small-voiced  pug-dog  welcomes  in  the  sun, 
And  flea-bit  mongrels,  wakening  one  by  one, 

Give  answer  all. 

When  evening  dim 

Draws  round  us,  then  the  lonely  caterwaul 
Tart  solo,  sour  duet,  and  general  squall,  — 

These  are  our  hymn. 

Women,  with  tongues 
Like  polar  needles,  ever  on  the  jar,  — 
Men,  plugless  word-spouts,  whose  deep  fountains  are 

Within  their  lungs. 

Children,  with  drums 

Strapped  round  them  by  the  fond  paternal  ass, 
Peripatetics  with  a  blade  of  grass 

Between  their  thumbs. 

Vagrants,  whose  arts 

Have  caged  some  devil  in  their  mad  machine, 
Which  grinding,  squeaks,  with  husky  groans  between, 

Come  out  by  starts. 


126  DAILY   TRIALS. 

Cockneys  that  kill 

Thin  horses  of  a  Sunday,  —  men,  with  clams, 
Hoarse  as  young  bisons  roaring  for  their  dams 

From  hill  to  hill. 

Soldiers,  with  guns 
Making  a  nuisance  of  the  blessed  air, 
Child-crying  bellmen,  children  in  despair 

Screeching  for  buns. 

Storms,  thunders,  waves ! 
Howl,  crash,  and  bellow  till  ye  get  your  fill ; 
Ye  sometimes  rest ;  men  never  can  be  still 

But  in  their  graves. 


EVENING. 


BY    A    TAILOR. 


DAY  hath  put  on  his  jacket,  and  around 
His  burning  bosom  buttoned  it  with  stars. 
Here  will  I  lay  me  on  the  velvet  grass, 
That  is  like  padding  to  earth's  meagre  ribs, 
And  hold  communion  with  the  things  about  me. 
Ah  me  !  how  lovely  is  the  golderl  braid, 
That  binds  the  skirt  of  night's  descending  robe  ! 
The  thin  leaves,  quivering  on  their  silken  threads, 
Do  make  a  music  like  to  rustling  satin, 
As  the  light  breezes  smooth  their  downy  nap. 

Ha  !  what  is  this  that  rises  to  my  touch, 
So  like  a  cushion  ?     Can  it  be  a  cabbage  ? 
It  is,  it  is  that  deeply  injured  flower, 
Which  boys  do  flout  us  with  ;  — but  yet  I  love  thee, 
Thou  giant  rose,  wrapped  in  a  green  surtout. 


128  EVENING. 

Doubtless  in  Eden  thou  didst  blush  as  bright 
As  these,  thy  puny  brethren ;  and  thy  breath 
Sweetened  the  fragrance  of  her  spicy  air ; 
But  now  thou  seemest  like  a  bankrupt  beau, 
Stripped  of  his  gaudy  hues  and  essences, 
And  growing  portly  in  his  sober  garments. 

Is  that  a  swan  that  rides  upon  the  water  ? 

0  no,  it  is  that  other  gentle  bird, 
Which  is  the  patron  of  our  noble  calling. 

1  well  remember,  in  my  early  years, 

When  these  young  hands  first  closed  upon  a  goose  ; 

I  have  a  scar  upon  my  thimble  finger, 

Which  chronicles  the  hour  of  young  ambition. 

My  father  was  a  tailor,  and  his  father, 

And  my  sire's  grandsire,  all  of  them  were  tailors  ; 

They  had  an  ancient  goose,  —  it  was  an  heir-loom 

From  some  remoter  tailor  of  our  race. 

It  happened  I  did  see  it  on  a  time 

When  none  was  near,  and  I  did  deal  with  it, 

And  it  did  burn  me,  —  oh,  most  fearfully  ! 

It  is  a  joy  to  straighten  out  one's  limbs, 
And  leap  elastic  from  the  level  counter, 
Leaving  the  petty  grievances  of  earth, 


EVENING.  129 

The  breaking  thread,  the  din  of  clashing  shears, 
And  all  the  needles  that  do  wound  the  spirit, 
For  such  a  pensive  hour  of  soothing  silence. 
Kind  Nature,  shuffling  in  her  loose  undress, 
Lays  bare  her  shady  bosom  ;  —  I  can  feel 
With  all  around  me  ;  —  I  can  hail  the  flowers 
That  sprig  earth's  mantle,  —  and  yon  quiet  bird, 
That  rides  the  stream,  is  to  me  as  a  brother. 
The  vulgar  know  not  all  the  hidden  pockets, 
Where  Nature  stows  away  her  loveliness. 
But  this  unnatural  posture  of  the  legs 
Cramps  my  extended  calves,  and  I  must  go 
Where  I  can  coil  them  in  their  wonted  fashion. 

9 


THE   DORCHESTER   GIANT. 


THERE  was  a  giant  in  time  of  old, 

A  mighty  one  was  he  ; 
He  had  a  wife,  but  she  was  a  scold, 
So  he  kept  her  shut  in  his  mammoth  fold  ; 

And  he  had  children  three. 

It  happened  to  he  an  election  day, 

And  the  giants  were  choosing  a  king ; 
The  people  were  not  democrats  then, 
They  did  not  talk  of  the  rights  of  men, 
And  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Then  the  giant  took  his  children  three 

And  fastened  them  in  the  pen  ; 
The  children  roared  ;  quoth  the  giant,  "  Be  still !  " 
And  Dorchester  Heights  and  Milton  Hill 

Rolled  back  the  sound  again. 


THE    DORCHESTER    GL\NT.  131 

Then  he  brought  them  a  pudding  stuffed  with  plums, 

As  big  as  the  State-House  dome  ; 
Quoth  he,  "  There  's  something  for  you  to  eat ; 
So  stop  your  mouths  with  your  'lection  treat, 

And  wait  till  your  dad  comes  home." 

So  the  giant  pulled  him  a  chestnut  stout, 

And  whittled  the  boughs  away  ; 
The  boys  and  their  mother  set  up  a  shout, 
Said  he,  "  You  're  in,  and  you  can't  get  out, 

Bellow  as  loud  as  you  may." 

Off  he  went,  and  he  growled  a  tune 

As  he  strode  the  fields  along ; 
'T  is  said  a  buffalo  fainted  away, 
And  fell  as  cold  as  a  lump  of  clay, 

When  he  heard  the  giant's  song. 

But  whether  the  story  's  true  or  not, 

It  is  not  for  me  to  show ; 
There  's  many  a  thing  that  's  twice  as  queer 
In  somebody's  lectures  that  we  hear, 

And  those  are  true,  you  know. 


132  THE    DORCHESTER   GIANT. 

What  are  those  lone  ones  doing  now, 
The  wife  and  the  children  sad  ? 

O  !  they  are  in  a  terrible  rout, 

Screaming,  and  throwing  their  pudding  about, 
Acting  as  they  were  mad. 

They  flung  it  over  to  Roxbury  hills, 

They  flung  it  over  the  plain, 
And  all  over  Milton  and  Dorchester  too 
Great  lumps  of  pudding  the  giants  threw ; 
They  tumbled  as  thick  as  rain. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Giant  and  mammoth  have  passed  away, 

For  ages  have  floated  by  ; 
The  suet  is  hard  as  a  marrow  bone, 
And  every  plum  is  turned  to  a  stone, 

But  there  the  puddings  lie. 

And  if,  some  pleasant  afternoon, 

You  '11  ask  me  out  to  ride, 
The  whole  of  the  story  I  will  tell, 
And  you  shall  see  where  the  puddings  fell, 

And  pay  for  the  punch  beside. 


TO  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN. 


IN    THE    ATHEN^UM   GALLERY. 


IT  may  be  so,  —  perhaps  thou  hast 
A  warm  and  loving  heart ; 

I  will  not  blame  thee  for  thy  face, 
Poor  devil  as  thou  art. 

That  thing,  thou  fondly  deem'st  a  nose, 
Unsightly  though  it  be,  — 

In  spite  of  all  the  cold  world's  scorn, 
It  may  be  much  to  thee. 

Those  eyes,  —  among  thine  elder  friends 
Perhaps  they  pass  for  blue  ;  — 

No  matter,  —  if  a  man  can  see, 
What  more  have  eyes  to  do  ? 


134  TO    THE    PORTRAIT    OF    "A   GENTLEMAN." 

Thy  mouth,  —  that  fissure  in  thy  face 
By  something  like  a  chin,  — 

May  be  a  very  useful  place 
To  put  thy  victual  in. 

I  know  thou  hast  a  wife  at  home, 

I  know  thou  hast  a  child, 
By  that  subdued,  domestic  smile 

Upon  thy  features  mild. 

That  wife  sits  fearless  by  thy  side, 

That  cherub  on  thy  knee  ; 
They  do  not  shudder  at  thy  looks, 

They  do  not  shrink  from  thee. 

Above  thy  mantel  is  a  hook,  — 

A  portrait  once  was  there  ; 
It  was  thine  only  ornament,  — 

Alas  !  that  hook  is  bare. 

She  begged  thee  not  to  let  it  go, 
She  begged  thee  all  in  vain  ; 

She  wept,  —  and  breathed  a  trembling  prayer 
To  meet  it  safe  again. 


TO  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN."     135 

It  was  a  bitter  sight  to  see 

That  picture  torn  away ; 
It  was  a  solemn  thought  to  think 

What  all  her  friends  would  say  ! 

And  often  in  her  calmer  hours, 

And  in  her  happy  dreams, 
Upon  its  long-deserted  hook 

The  absent  portrait  seems. 

Thy  wretched  infant  turns  his  head 

In  melancholy  wise, 
And  looks  to  meet  the  placid  stare 

Of  those  unbending  eyes. 

I  never  saw  thee,  lovely  one,  — 

Perchance  I  never  may  ; 
It  is  not  often  that  we  cross 

Such  people  in  our  way  ; 

But  if  we  meet  in  distant  years, 

Or  on  some  foreign  shore, 
Sure  I  can  take  my  Bible  oath, 

I  've  seen  that  face  before. 


TO    THE    PORTRAIT    OF  "A  LADY." 


IN    THE    ATHENAEUM    GALLERY. 


WELL,  Miss,  I  wonder  where  you  live, 

I  wonder  what 's  your  name, 
I  wonder  how  you  came  to  be 

In  such  a  stylish  frame  ; 
Perhaps  you  were  a  favorite  child, 

Perhaps  an  only  one  ; 
Perhaps  your  friends  were  not  aware 

You  had  your  portrait  done  ! 

Yet  you  must  be  a  harmless  soul ; 

I  cannot  think  that  Sin 
Would  care  to  throw  his  loaded  dice, 

With  such  a  stake  to  win ; 
I  cannot  think  you  would  provoke 

The  poet's  wicked  pen, 
Or  make  young  women  bite  their  lips, 

Or  ruin  fine  young  men. 


TO   THE    PORTRAIT    OF    "A   LADY."  137 

Pray,  did  you  ever  hear,  my  love, 

Of  boys  that  go  about, 
Who,  for  a  very  trifling  sum, 

Will  snip  one's  picture  out  ? 
I  'm  not  averse  to  red  and  white, 

But  all  things  have  their  place, 
I  think  a  profile  cut  in  black 

Would  suit  your  style  of  face ! 

I  love  sweet  features  ;  I  will  own 

That  I  should  like  myself 
To  see  my  portrait  on  a  wall, 

Or  bust  upon  a  shelf; 
But  nature  sometimes  makes  one  up 

Of  such  sad  odds  and  ends, 
It  really  might  be  quite  as  well 

Hushed  up  among  one's  friends  ! 


THE    COMET. 


THE  Comet !     He  is  on  his  way, 

And  singing  as  he  flies  ; 
The  whizzing  planets  shrink  before 

The  spectre  of  the  skies ; 
Ah  !  well  may  regal  orbs  burn  blue, 

And  satellites  turn  pale, 
Ten  million  cubic  miles  of  head, 

Ten  billion  leagues  of  tail ! 

On,  on  by  whistling  spheres  of  light, 

He  flashes  and  he  flames  ; 
He  turns  not  to  the  left  nor  right, 

He  asks  them  not  their  names  ; 
One  spurn  from  his  demoniac  heel,  — 

Away,  away  they  fly, 
Where  darkness  might  be  bottled  up 

And  sold  for  "  Tyrian  dye." 


THE    COMET. 

And  what  would  happen  to  the  land, 

And  how  would  look  the  sea, 
If  in  the  bearded  devil's  path 

Our  earth  should  chance  to  be  ? 
Full  hot  and  high  the  sea  would  boil, 

Full  red  the  forests  gleam ; 
Me  thought  I  saw  and  heard  it  all 

In  a  dyspeptic  dream ! 

I  saw  a  tutor  take  his  tube 

The  Corriet's  course  to  spy ; 
I  heard  a  scream, — the  gathered  rays 

Had  stewed  the  tutor's  eye ; 
I  saw  a  fort,  —  the  soldiers  all 

Were  armed  with  goggles  green ; 
Pop  cracked  the  guns  !  whiz  flew  the  balls 

Bang  went  the  magazine  ! 

I  saw  a  poet  dip  a  scroll 

Each  moment  in  a  tub, 
I  read  upon  the  warping  back, 

"  The  Dream  of  Beelzebub  " ; 
He  could  not  see  his  verses  burn, 

Although  his  brain  was  fried, 
And  ever  and  anon  he  bent 

To  wet  them  as  they  dried. 


139 


140  THE    COMET. 

I  saw  the  scalding  pitch  loll  down 

The  crackling,  sweating  pines, 
And  streams  of  smoke,  like  water-spouts, 

Burst  through  the  rumbling  mines ; 
I  asked  the  firemen  why  they  made 

Such  noise  about  the  town ; 
They  answered  not, — but  all  the  while 

The  brakes  went  up  and  down. 

I  saw  a  roasting  pullet  sit 

Upon  a  baking  egg ; 
I  saw  a  cripple  scorch  his  hand 

Extinguishing  his  leg ; 
I  saw  nine  geese  upon  the  wing 

Towards  the  frozen  pole, 
And  every  mother's  gosling  fell 

Crisped  to  a  crackling  coal. 

I  saw  the  ox  that  browsed  the  grass 

Writhe  in  the  blistering  rays, 
The  herbage  in  his  shrinking  jaws 

Was  all  a  fiery  blaze  ; 
I  saw  huge  fishes,  boiled  to  rags, 

Bob  through  the  bubbling  brine ; 
And  thoughts  of  supper  crossed  my  soul ; 

I  had  been  rash  at  mine. 


THE    COMET.  141 

Strange  sights  !  strange  sounds  !  0  fearful  dream  ! 

Its  memory  haunts  me  still, 
The  steaming  sea,  the  crimson  glare, 

That  wreathed  each  wooded  hill ; 
Stranger  !  if  through  thy  reeling  brain 

Such  midnight  visions  sweep, 
Spare,  spare,  O  spare  thine  evening  meal, 

And  sweet  shall  be  thy  sleep ! 


A    NOONTIDE   LYRIC. 


THE  dinner-bell,  the  dinner-bell 

Is  ringing  loud  and  clear ; 
Through  hill  and  plain,  through  street  and  lane, 

It  echoes  far  and  near; 
From  curtained  hall,  and  whitewashed  stall, 

Wherever  men  can  hide, 
Like  bursting  waves  from  ocean  caves, 

They  float  upon  the  tide. 

I  smell  the  smell  of  roasted  meat ! 

I  hear  the  hissing  fry ! 
The  beggars  know  where  they  can  go, 

But  where,  0  where  shall  I  ? 
At  twelve  o'clock  men  took  my  hand, 

At  two  they  only  stare, 
And  eye  me  with  a  fearful  look, 

As  if  I  were  a  bear ! 


A   NOONTIDE    LYRIC.  143 

The  poet  lays  his  laurels  down 

And  hastens  to  his  greens  ; 
The  happy  tailor  quits  his  goose, 

To  riot  on  his  beans ; 
The  weary  cobbler  snaps  his  thread, 

The  printer  leaves  his  pi ; 
His  very  devil  hath  a  home, 

But  what,  0  what  have  I  ? 

Methinks  I  hear  an  angel  voice, 

That  softly  seems  to  say ; 
"  Pale  stranger,  all  may  yet  be  well, 

Then  wipe  thy  tears  away ; 
Erect  thy  head,  and  cock  thy  hat, 

And  follow  me  afar, 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  jolly  meal 

And  charge  it  at  the  bar." 

I  hear  the  voice  !  I  go !  I  go ! 

Prepare  your  meat  and  wine ! 
They  little  heed  their  future  need, 

Who  pay  not  when  they  dine. 
Give  me  to-day  the  rosy  bowl, 

Give  me  one  golden  dream, — 
To-morrow  kick  away  the  stool, 

And  dandle  from  the  beam  ! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTERMAN. 


IT  was  a  tall  young  oysterman  lived  by  the  river-side, 
His  shop  was  just  upon  the  bank,  his  boat  was  on  the 

tide; 
The  daughter  of  a  fisherman,  that  was  so  straight  and 

slim, 
Lived  over  on  the  other  bank,  right  opposite  to  him. 

It  was  the  pensive  oysterman  that  saw  a  lovely  maid, 
Upon  a  moonlight  evening,  a  sitting  in  the  shade  ; 
He  saw  her  wave  her  handkerchief,  as  much  as  if  to  say, 
"  I'  m  wide  awake,  young  oysterman,  and  all  the  folks 
away." 

Then  up  arose  the  oysterman,  and  to  himself  said  he, 
"  I  guess  I  '11  leave  the  skiff  at  home,  for  fear  that  folks 

should  see ; 

I  read  it  in  the  story-book,  that,  for  to  kiss  his  dear, 
Leander  swam  the  Hellespont, — and  I  will  swim  this 

here." 


THE    BALLAD   OF    THE    OYSTERMAX.  145 

And  he  has  leaped  into  the  waves,  and  crossed  the 

shining  stream, 
And  he  has  clambered  up  the  bank,  all  in  the  moonlight 

gleam ; 

0  there  were  kisses  sweet  as  dew,  and  words  as  soft  as 

rain, — 

But  they  have  heard  her  father's  step,  and  in  he  leaps 
again  ! 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman,  —  "0  what  was  that, 
my  daughter  ? " 

"  'T  was  nothing  but  a  pebble,  sir,  I  threw  into  the 
water ;  " 

"  And  what  is  that,  pray  tell  me,  love,  that  paddles  off 
so  fast  ?  " 

"  It 's  nothing  but  a  porpoise,  sir,  that 's  been  a  swim 
ming  past." 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman,  —  "Now  bring  me 
my  harpoon  ! 

1  '11  get  into  my  fishing-boat,  and  fix  the  fellow  soon  ;  '* 
Down  fell  that  pretty  innocent,  as  falls  a  snow-white? 

lamb, 
Her  hair  drooped  round  her  pallid  cheeks,  like  sea-weed 

on  a  clam. 

10 


146  THE    BALLAD   OF    THE    OYSTERMAN. 

Alas  for  those  two  loving  ones !  she  waked  not  from  her 

swound, 
And  he  was  taken  with  the  cramp,  and  in  the  waves 

was  drowned ; 

But  Fate  has  metamorphosed  them,  in  pity  of  their  woe, 
And  now  they  keep  an  oyster-shop  for  mermaids  down 

below. 


THE    MUSIC-GRINDERS. 


THERE  are  three  ways  in  which  men  take 
One's  money  from  his  purse, 

And  very  hard  it  is  to  tell 

Which  of  the  three  is  worse  ; 

But  all  of  them  are  bad  enough 
To  make  a  body  curse. 

You  're  riding  out  some  pleasant  day, 
And  counting  up  your  gains  ; 

A  fellow  jumps  from  out  a  bush, 
And  takes  your  horse's  reins, 

Another  hints  some  words  about 
A  bullet  in  your  brains. 

It 's  hard  to  meet  such  pressing  friends 

In  such  a  lonely  spot ; 
It 's  very  hard  to  lose  your  cash, 

But  harder  to  be  shot ; 
And  so  you  take  your  wallet  out, 

Though  you  would  rather  not. 


148  THE    MUSIC-GRINDERS. 

Perhaps  you  're  going  out  to  dine,  — 
Some  filthy  creature  begs 

You  ']!  hear  about  the  cannon-ball 
That  carried  off  his  pegs, 

And  says  it  is  a  dreadful  thing 
For  men  to  lose  their  legs. 

He  tells  you  of  his  starving  wife, 

His  children  to  be  fed, 
Poor  little,  lovely  innocents, 

All  clamorous  for  bread,  — 
And  so  you  kindly  help  to  put 

A  bachelor  to  bed. 

You  're  sitting  on  your  window-seat 
Beneath  a  cloudless  moon  ; 

You  hear  a  sound,  that  seems  to  wear 
The  semblance  of  a  tune. 

As  if  a  broken  fife  should  strive 
To  drown  a  cracked  bassoon. 

And  nearer,  nearer  still,  the  tide 
Of  music  seems  to  come, 

There  's  something  like  a  human  voice, 
And  something  like  a  drum ; 

You  sit  in  speechless  agony, 
Until  your  ear  is  numb. 


THE    MUSIOGRLN'DERS.  149 

Poor  "  home,  sweet  home,"  should  seem  to  be 

A  very  dismal  place  ; 
Your  "  auld  acquaintance,"  all  at  once, 

Is  altered  in  the  face  ; 
Their  discords  sting  through  Burns  and  Moore, 

Like  hedgehogs  dressed  in  lace. 

You  think  they  are  crusaders,  sent 

From  some  infernal  clime, 
To  pluck  the  eyes  of  Sentiment, 

And  dock  the  tail  of  Rhyme, 
To  crack  the  voice  of  Melody, 

And  break  the  legs  of  Time. 

But  hark !  the  air  again  is  still, 

The  music  all  is  ground, 
And  silence,  like  a  poultice,  comes 

To  heal  the  blows  of  sound ; 
It  cannot  be,  —  it  is,  —  it  is,  — 

A  hat  is  going  round ! 

No  !   Pay  the  dentist  when  he  leaves 

A  fracture  in  your  jaw ; 
And  pay  the  owner  of  the  bear, 

That  stunned  you  with  his  paw, 
And  buy  the  lobster,  that  has  had 

Your  knuckles  in  his  claw ; 


150  THE    MUSIC -GRINDERS. 

But  if  you  are  a  portly  man, 
Put  on  your  fiercest  frown, 

And  talk  about  a  constable 

To  turn  them  out  of  town ; 

Then  close  your  sentence  with  an  oath, 
And  shut  the  window  down ! 

And  if  you  are  a  slender  man, 
Not  big  enough  for  that, 

Or,  if  you  cannot  make  a  speech, 
Because  you  are  a  flat, 

Go  very  quietly  and  drop 
A  button  in  the  hat ! 


THE    TREADMILL    SONG. 


THE  stars  are  rolling  in  the  sky, 

The  earth  rolls  on  below, 
And  we  can  feel  the  rattling  wheel 

Revolving  as  we  go. 
Then  tread  away,  my  gallant  boys, 

And  make  the  axle  fly ; 
Why  should  not  wheels  go  round  about, 

Like  planets  in  the  sky  ? 

Wake  up,  wake  up,  my  duck-legged  man, 

And  stir  your  solid  pegs  ! 
Arouse,  arouse,  my  gawky  friend, 

And  shake  your  spider  legs ; 
What  though  you  're  awkward  at  the  trade, 

There  's  time  enough  to  learn,  — 
So  lean  upon  the  rail,  my  lad, 

And  take  another  turn. 


152  THE    TREADMILL    SONG. 

They  've  built  us  up  a  noble  wall, 

To  keep  the  vulgar  out ; 
We  've  nothing  in  the  world  to  do, 

But  just  to  walk  about ; 
So  faster,  now,  you  middle  men, 

And  try  to  beat  the  ends,  — 
It 's  pleasant  work  to  ramble  round 

Among  one's  honest  friends. 

Here,  tread  upon  the  long  man's  toes, 

He  shan't  be  lazy  here,  — 
And  punch  the  little  fellow's  ribs, 

And  tweak  that  lubber's  ear,  — 
He  's  lost  them  both,  —  don't  pull  his  hair, 

Because  he  wears  a  scratch, 
But  poke  him  in  the  further  eye, 

That  is  n't  in  the  patch. 

Hark  !  fellows,  there  's  the  supper-bell, 

And  so  our  work  is  done  ; 
It 's  pretty  sport,  —  suppose  we  take 

A  round  or  two  for  fun ! 
If  ever  they  should  turn  me  out, 

When  I  have  better  grown, 
Now  hang  me,  but  I  mean  to  have 

A  treadmill  of  my  own ! 


THE    SEPTEMBER    GALE. 


I  'M  not  a  chicken ;  I  have  seen 

Full  many  a  chill  September, 
And  though  I  was  a  youngster  then, 

That  gale  I  well  remember ; 
The  day  before,  my  kite-string  snapped, 

And  I,  my  kite  pursuing, 
The  wind  whisked  off  my  palm-leaf  hat ; 

For  me  two  storms  were  brewing ! 

It  came  as  quarrels  sometimes  do, 

When  married  folks  get  clashing ; 
There  was  a  heavy  sigh  or  two, 

Before  the  fire  was  flashing,  — 
A  little  stir  among  the  clouds, 

Before  they  rent  asunder,  — 
A  little  rocking  of  the  trees, 

And  then  came  on  the  thunder. 


154  THE    SEPTEMBER   GALE. 

Lord !  how  the  ponds  and  rivers  boiled, 

And  how  the  shingles  rattled  ! 
And  oaks  were  scattered  on  the  ground 

As  if  the  Titans  battled ; 
And  all  above  was  in  a  howl, 

And  all  below  a  clatter,  — 
The  earth  was  like  a  frying-pan, 

Or  some  such  hissing  matter. 

It  chanced  to  be  our  washing-day, 

And  all  our  things  were  drying : 
The  storm  came  roaring  through  the  lines, 

And  set  them  all  a  flying ; 
I  saw  the  shirts  and  petticoats 

Go  riding  off  like  witches ; 
I  lost,  ah  !  bitterly  I  wept,  — 

I  lost  my  Sunday  breeches  ! 

I  saw  them  straddling  through  the  air, 

Alas  !  too  late  to  win  them  ; 
I  saw  them  chase  the  clouds  as  if 

The  devil  had  been  in  them ; 
They  were  my  darlings  and  my  pride, 

My  boyhood's  only  riches,  — 
"  Farewell,  farewell,"  I  faintly  cried,  — 

"  My  breeches  !     0  my  breeches  !  " 


THE    SEPTEMBER   GALE.  155 

That  night  I  saw  them  in  my  dreams, 

How  changed  from  what  I  knew  them ! 
The  dews  had  steeped  their  faded  threads, 

The  winds  had  whistled  through  them; 
I  saw  the  wide  and  ghastly  rents 

Where  demon  claws  had  torn  them  ; 
A  hole  was  in  their  amplest  part, 

As  if  an  imp  had  worn  them. 

I  have  had  many  happy  years, 

And  tailors  kind  and  clever, 
But  those  young  pantaloons  have  gone 

Forever  and  forever  ! 
And  not  till  fate  has  cut  the  last 

Of  all  my  earthly  stitches, 
This  aching  heart  shall  cease  to  mourn 

My  loved,  my  long-lost  breeches ! 


THE    HEIGHT    OF    THE    RIDICULOUS. 


I  wrote  some  lines  once  on  a  time 
In  wondrous  merry  mood, 

And  thought,  as  usual,  men  would  say 
They  were  exceeding  good. 

They  were  so  queer,  so  very  queer, 
I  laughed  as  I  would  die ; 

Albeit,  in  the  general  way, 
A  sober  man  am  I. 

I  called  my  servant,  and  he  came  ; 

How  kind  it  was  of  him, 
To  mind  a  slender  man  like  me, 

He  of  the  mighty  limb ! 

"  These  to  the  printer,"  I  exclaimed, 
And,  in  my  humorous  way, 

I  added,  (as  a  trifling  jest,) 

"  There  '11  be  the  devil  to  pay." 


THE    HEIGHT    OF   THE    RIDICULOUS.  157 

He  took  the  paper,  and  I  watched, 

And  saw  him  peep  within  ; 
At  the  first  line  he  read,  his  face 

Was  all  upon  the  grin. 

He  read  the  next ;  the  grin  grew  broad, 

And  shot  from  ear  to  ear ; 
He  read  the  third ;  a  chuckling  noise 

I  now  began  to  hear. 

The  fourth ;  he  broke  into  a  roar ; 

The  fifth  ;  his  waistband  split ; 
The  sixth  ;  he  burst  five  buttons  off, 

And  tumbled  in  a  fit. 

Ten  days  and  nights,  with  sleepless  eye, 

I  watched  that  wretched  man, 
And  since,  I  never  dare  to  write 

As  funny  as  I  can. 


THE    HOT    SEASON. 


THE  folks,  that  on  the  first  of  May 

Wore  winter-coats  and  hose, 
Began  to  say,  the  first  of  June, 

"  Good  Lord !  how  hot  it  grows." 
At  last  two  Fahrenheits  blew  up, 

And  killed  two  children  small, 
And  one  barometer  shot  dead 

A  tutor  with  its  ball ! 

Now  all  day  long  the  locusts  sang 

Among  the  leafless  trees  ; 
Three  new  hotels  warped  inside  out, 

The  pumps  could  only  wheeze ; 
And  ripe  old  wine,  that  twenty  years 

Had  cobwebbed  o'er  in  vain, 
Came  spouting  through  the  rotten  corks, 

Like  Joly's  best  Champagne ! 


THE    HOT   SEASON.  159 

The  Worcester  locomotives  did 

Their  trip  in  half  an  hour ; 
The  Lowell  cars  ran  forty  miles 

Before  they  checked  the  power ; 
Roll  brimstone  soon  became  a  drug, 

And  loco-focos  fell ; 
All  asked  for  ice,  but  everywhere 

Saltpetre  was  to  sell. 

Plump  men  of  mornings  ordered  tights, 

But,  ere  the  scorching  noons, 
Their  candle-moulds  had  grown  as  loose 

As  Cossack  pantaloons ! 
The  dogs  ran  mad,  —  men  could  not  try 

If  water  they  would  choose  ; 
A  horse  fell  dead, — he  only  left 

Four  red-hot,  rusty  shoes  ! 

But  soon  the  people  could  not  bear 

The  slightest  hint  of  fire ; 
Allusions  to  caloric  drew 

A  flood  of  savage  ire  ; 
The  leaves  on  heat  were  all  torn  out 

From  every  book  at  school, 
And  many  blackguards  kicked  and  caned, 

Because  they  said,  —  "  Keep  cool !  " 


160  THE    HOT    SEASON. 

The  gas-light  companies  were  mobbed, 

The  bakers  all  were  shot, 
The  penny  press  began  to  talk 

Of  Lynching  Doctor  Nott ; 
And  all  about  the  warehouse  steps 

Were  angry  men  in  droves, 
Crashing  and  splintering  through  the  doors 

To  smash  the  patent  stoves ! 

The  abolition  men  and  maids 

Were  tanned  to  such  a  hue, 
You  scarce  could  tell  them  from  their  friends, 

Unless  their  eyes  were  blue ; 
And,  when  I  left,  society 

Had  burst  its  ancient  guards, 
And  Brattle  Street  and  Temple  Place 

Were  interchanging  cards ! 


POEMS 


ADDED    SINCE    THE    FIRST    EDITION. 
11 


DEPARTED    DAYS. 


YES,  dear  departed,  cherished  days, 

Could  Memory's  hand  restore 
Your  Morning  light,  your  evening  rays, 

From  Time's  gray  urn  once  more, — 
Then  might  this  restless  heart  be  still, 

This  straining  eye  might  close, 
And  Hope  her  fainting  pinions  fold, 

While  the  fair  phantoms  rose. 

But,  like  a  child  in  ocean's  arms, 

We  strive  against  the  stream, 
Each  moment  farther  from  the  shore 

Where  life's  young  fountains  gleam;  — 
Each  moment  fainter  wave  the  fields, 

And  wider  rolls  the  sea ; 
The  mist  grows  dark, — the  sun  goes  down,- 

Day  breaks, — and  where  are  we  ? 


THE    STEAMBOAT. 


SEE  how  yon  flaming  herald  treads 

The  ridged  and  rolling  waves, 
As,  crashing  o'er  their  crested  heads, 

She  bows  her  surly  slaves  ! 
With  foam  before  and  fire  behind, 

She  rends  the  clinging  sea, 
That  flies  before  the  roaring  wind, 

Beneath  her  hissing  lee. 

The  morning  spray,  like  sea-born  flowers, 

With  heaped  and  glistening  bells, 
Falls  round  her  fast,  in  ringing  showers, 

With  every  wave  that  swells  ; 
And,  burning  o'er  the  midnight  deep, 

In  lurid  fringes  thrown, 
The  living  gems  of  ocean  sweep 

Along  her  flashing  zone. 


THE    STEAMBOAT.  165 

With  clashing  wheel,  and  lifting  keel, 

And  smoking  torch  on  high, 
When  winds  are  loud,  and  billows  reel, 

She  thunders  foaming  by ; 
When  seas  are  silent  and  serene, 

With  even  beam  she  glides, 
The  sunshine  glimmering  through  the  green 

That  skirts  her  gleaming  sides. 

Now,  like  a  wild  nymph,  far  apart 

She  veils  her  shadowy  form, 
The  beating  of  her  restless  heart 

Still  sounding  through  the  storm ; 
Now  answers,  like  a  courtly  dame, 

The  reddening  surges  o'er, 
With  flying  scarf  of  spangled  flame, 

The  Pharos  of  the  shore. 

To-night  yon  pilot  shall  not  sleep, 

Who  trims  his  narrowed  sail ; 
To-night  yon  frigate  scarce  shall  keep 

Her  broad  breast  to  the  gale ; 
And  many  a  foresail,  scooped  and  strained, 

Shall  break  from  yard  and  stay, 
Before  this  smoky  wreath  has  stained 

The  rising  mist  of  day. 


166  THE    STEAMBOAT. 

Hark !  hark  !  I  hear  yon  whistling  shroud, 

I  see  yon  quivering  mast ; 
The  black  throat  of  the  hunted  cloud 

Is  panting  forth  the  blast ! 
An  hour,  and,  whirled  like  winnowing  chaff, 

The  giant  surge  shall  fling 
His  tresses  o'er  yon  pennon  staff, 

White  as  the  sea-bird's  wing ! 

Yet  rest,  ye  wanderers  of  the  deep ; 

Nor  wind  nor  wave  shall  tire 
Those  fleshless  arms,  whose  pulses  leap 

With  floods  of  living  fire  ; 
Sleep  on, — and,  when  the  morning  light 

Streams  o'er  the  shining  bay, 
O  think  of  those  for  whom  the  night 

Shall  never  wake  in  day ! 


THE    PARTING    WORD. 


I  MUST  leave  thee,  lady  sweet ! 
Months  shall  waste  before  we  meet ; 
Winds  are  fair,  and  sails  are  spread, 
Anchors  leave  their  ocean  bed  ; 
Ere  this  shining  day  grow  dark, 
Skies  shall  gird  my  shoreless  bark ; 
Through  thy  tears,  0  lady  mine, 
.Read  thy  lover's  parting  line. 

When  the  first  sad  sun  shall  set, 
Thou  shalt  tear  thy  locks  of  jet ; 
Wrhen  the  morning  star  shall  rise, 
Thou  shalt  wake  with  weeping  eyes ; 
When  the  second  sun  goes  down, 
Thou  more  tranquil  shalt  be  grown, 
Taught  too  well  that  wild  despair 
Dims  thine  eyes,  and  spoils  thy  hair. 


168  THE    PARTING   WORD. 

All  the  first  unquiet  week 
Thou  shalt  wear  a  smileless  cheek ; 
In  the  first  month's  second  half 
Thou  shalt  once  attempt  to  laugh ; 
Then  in  Pickwick  thou  shalt  dip, 
Slightly  puckering  round  the  lip, 
Till  at  last,  in  sorrow's  spite, 
Samuel  makes  thee  laugh  outright. 

While  the  first  seven  mornings  last, 
Round  thy  chamber  bolted  fast, 
Many  a  youth  shall  fume  and  pout, 
"  Hang  the  girl,  she  's  always  out ! " 
While  the  second  week  goes  round, 
Vainly  shall  they  ring  and  pound ; 
When  the  third  week  shall  begin, 
"  Martha,  let  the  creature  in." 

Now  once  more  the  nattering  throng 
Round  thee  flock  with  smile  and  song, 
But  thy  lips,  unweaned  as  yet, 
Lisp,  "  0,  how  can  I  forget !  " 
Men  and  devils  both  contrive 
Traps  for  catching  girls  alive ; 
Eve  was  duped,  and  Helen  kissed, — 
How,  O  how  can  you  resist  ? 


THE    PARTING   WORD.  169 

First  be  careful  of  your  fan, 
Trust  it  not  to  youth  or  man ; 
Love  has  filled  a  pirate's  sail 
Often  with  its  perfumed  gale. 
Mind  your  kerchief  most  of  all, 
Fingers  touch  when  kerchiefs  fall ; 
Shorter  ell  than  mercers  clip, 
Is  the  space  from  hand  to  lip. 

Trust  not  such  as  talk  in  tropes, 
Full  of  pistols,  daggers,  ropes ; 
All  the  hemp  that  Kussia  bears 
Scarce  would  answer  lovers'  prayers ; 
Never  thread  was  spun  so  fine, 
Never  spider  stretched  the  line, 
Would  not  hold  the  lovers  true 
That  would  really  swing  for  you. 

Fiercely  some  shall  storm  and  swear, 
Beating  breasts  in  black  despair ; 
Others  murmur  with  a  sigh, 
You  must  melt  or  they  will  die  ; 
Painted  words  on  empty  lies, 
Grubs  with  wings  like  butterflies  ; 
Let  them  die,  and  welcome,  too ; 
Pray  what  better  could  they  do  ? 


170  THE    PARTING   WORD. 

Fare  thee  well,  if  years  efface 
From  thy  heart  love's  burning  trace, 
Keep,  0  keep  that  hallowed  seat 
From  the  tread  of  vulgar  feet ; 
If  the  blue  lips  of  the  sea 
"Wait  with  icy  kiss  for  me, 
Let  not  thine  forget  the  vow, 
Sealed  how  often,  Love,  as  now ! 


SONG, 

WRITTEN    FOR    THE    DINNER    GIVEN    TO    CHARLES    DICKENS, 
BY    THE    YOUNG    MEN    OF    BOSTON,    FEB.    1,    1842. 


THE  stars  their  early  vigils  keep, 

The  silent  hours  are  near 
"When  drooping  eyes  forget  to  weep,  — 

Yet  still  we  linger  here  ; 
And  what,  —  the  passing  churl  may  ask, 

Can  claim  such  wondrous  power, 
That  Toil  forgets  his  wonted  task, 

And  Love  his  promised  hour  ? 

The  Irish  harp  no  longer  thrills, 

Or  breathes  a  fainter  tone ; 
The  clarion  blast  from  Scotland's  hills 

Alas  !  no  more  is  blown ; 
And  Passion's  burning  lip  bewails 

Her  Harold's  wasted  fire, 
Still  lingering  o'er  the  dust  that  veils 

The  Lord  of  England's  lyre. 


172  SONG. 

But  grieve  not  o'er  its  broken  strings, 

Nor  think  its  soul  hath  died, 
While  yet  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

As  once  o'er  Avon's  side  ;  — 
While  gentle  summer  sheds  her  bloom, 

And  dewy  blossoms  wave, 
Alike  o'er  Juliet's  storied  tomb 

And  Nelly's  nameless  grave. 

Thou  glorious  island  of  the  sea  ! 

Though  wide  the  wasting  flood 
That  parts  our  distant  land  from  thee, 

We  claim  thy  generous  blood ; 
Nor  o'er  thy  far  horizon  springs 

One  hallowed  star  of  fame, 
But  kindles,  like  an  angel's  wings, 

Our  western  skies  in  flame  ! 


LINES 


RECITED    AT    THE    BERKSHIRE    FESTIVAL. 


COME  back  to  your  mother,  ye  children,  for  shame, 
Who  have  wandered  like  truants,  for  riches  or  fame  ! 
With  a  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  sprig  in  her  cap, 
She  calls  you  to  feast  from  her  bountiful  lap. 

Come  out  from  your  alleys,  your  courts,  and  your  lanes, 
And  breathe,  like  young  eagles,  the  air  of  our  plains ; 
Take  a  whiff  from  our  fields,  and  your  excellent  wives 
Will  declare  it 's  all  nonsense  insuring  your  lives. 

Come  you  of  the  law,  who  can  talk,  if  you  please, 
Till  the  man  in  the  moon  will  allow  it 's  a  cheese, 
And  leave  "  the  old  lady,  that  never  tells  lies," 
To  sleep  with  her  handkerchief  over  her  eyes. 


174  LINES. 

Ye  healers  of  men,  for  a  moment  decline 

Your  feats  in  the  rhubarb  and  ipecac  line  ; 

While  you  shut  up  your  turnpike,  your  neighbours  can  go 

The  old  roundabout  road,  to  the  regions  below. 

You  clerk,  on  whose  ears  are  a  couple  of  pens, 
And  whose  head  is  an  ant-hill  of  units  and  tens ; 
Though  Plato  denies  you,  we  welcome  you  still 
As  a  featherless  biped,  in  spite  of  your  quill. 

Poor  drudge  of  the  city  !  how  happy  he  feels, 

With  the  burs  on  his  legs,  and  the  grass  at  his  heels  ! 

No  dodger  behind,  his  bandannas  to  share, 

No  constable  grumbling,  "  You  must  n't  walk  there  !  " 

In  yonder  green  meadow,  to  memory  dear, 

He  slaps  a  mosquito  and  brushes  a  tear ; 

The  dewdrops  hang  round  him  on  blossoms  and  shoots, 

He  breathes  but  one  sigh  for  his  youth  and  his  boots. 

There  stands  the  old  schoolhouse,  hard  by  the  old  church; 
That  tree  at  its  side  had  the  flavor  of  birch ; 
O  sweet  were  the  days  of  his  juvenile  tricks, 
Though  the  prairie  of  youth  had  so  many  "  big  licks," 


LINES.  175 

By  the  side  of  yon  river  he  weeps  and  he  slumps, 
The  boots  fill  with  water,  as  if  they  were  pumps ; 
Till,  sated  with  rapture,  he  steals  to  his  bed, 
With  a  glow  in  his  heart  and  a  cold  in  his  head. 

'T  is  past,  —  he  is  dreaming,  —  I  see  him  again; 
The  ledger  returns  as  by  legerdemain  ; 
His  neckcloth  is  damp  with  an  easterly  flaw, 
And  he  holds  in  his  fingers  an  omnibus  straw. 

He  dreams  the  chill  gust  is  a  blossomy  gale, 
That  the  straw  is  a  rose  from  his  dear  native  vale ; 
And  murmurs,  unconscious  of  space  and  of  time, 
"  A  1.     Extra-super.     Ah,  is  n't  it  PRIME  !  " 

Oh  what  are  the  prizes  we  perish  to  win 

To  the  first  little  "  shiner  "  we  caught  with  a  pin  ! 

No  soil  upon  earth  is  so  dear  to  our  eyes 

As  the  soil  we  first  stirred  in  terrestrial  pies  ! 

Then  come  from  all  parties,  and  parts,  to  our  feast ; 
Though  not  at  the  "  Astor,"  we  '11  give  you  at  least 
A  bite  at  an  apple,  a  seat  on  the  grass, 
And  the  best  of  old  —  water  —  at  nothing  a  glass. 


VERSES    FOR    AFTER-DINNER. 

<T>.  B.  K.  SOCIETY,  1844. 


I  WAS  thinking  last  night,  as  I  sat  in  the  cars, 
With  the  charmingest  prospect  of  cinders  and  stars, 
Next  Thursday  is  —  bless  me  ! — how  hard  it  will  be, 
If  that  cannibal  president  calls  upon  me  ! 

There  is  nothing  on  earth  that  he  will  not  devour, 
From  a  tutor  in  seed  to  a  freshman  in  flower ; 
No  sage  is  too  gray,  and  no  youth  is  too  green, 
And  you  can't  be  too  plump,  though  you  're  never  too 
lean. 

While  others  enlarge  on  the  boiled  and  the  roast, 
He  serves  a  raw  clergyman  up  with  a  toast, 
Or  catches  some  doctor,  quite  tender  and  young, 
And  basely  insists  on  a  bit  of  his  tongue. 


LINES.  177 

Poor  victim,  prepared  for  his  classical  spit, 
With  a  stuffing  of  praise,  and  a  basting  of  wit, 
You  may  twitch  at  your  collar,  and  wrinkle  your  brow, 
But  you  're  up  on  your  legs,  and  you  're  in  for  it  now. 

O  think  of  your  friends, — they  are  waiting  to  hear 
Those  jokes  that  are  thought  so  remarkably  queer ; 
And  all  the  Jack  Horners  of  metrical  buns 
Are  prying  and  fingering  to  pick  out  the  puns. 

Those  thoughts  which,  like  chickens,  will  always  thrive 

best 

When  reared  by  the  heat  of  the  natural  nest, 
Will  perish  if  hatched  from  their  embryo  dream 
In  the  mist  and  the  glow  of  convivial  steam. 

0  pardon  me,  then,  if  I  meekly  retire, 
With  a  very  small  flash  of  ethereal  fire ; 
No  rubbing  will  kindle  your  Lucifer  match, 

If  the  fiz  does  not  follow  the  primitive  scratch. 

Dear  friends,  who  are  listening  so  sweetly  the.  while, 
With  your  lips  double  reefed  in  a  snug  little  smile,  — 

1  leave  you  two  fables,  both  drawn  from  the  deep,  — 
The  shells  you  can  drop,  but  the  pearls  you  may  keep. 

*  *  *  *  * 

12 


178 


LINES. 


The  fish  called  the  FLOUNDER,  perhaps  you  may  know, 

Has  one  side  for  use  and  another  for  show ; 

One  side  for  the  public,  a  delicate  brown, 

And  one  that  is  white,  which  he  always  keeps  down. 

A  very  young  flounder,  the  flattest  of  flats, 
(And  they  're  none  of  them  thicker  than  opera  hats,) 
Was  speaking  more  freely  than  charity  taught 
Of  a  friend  and  relation  that  just  had  been  caught. 

"  My !  what  an  exposure  !  just  see  what  a  sight ! 

I  blush  for  my  race,  —  he  is  showing  his  white  ! 

Such   spinning   and  wriggling,  —  why,  what   does   he 

wish? 
How  painfully  small  to  respectable  fish !  " 

Then  said  an  old  SCULFIN,  —  "  My  freedom  excuse, 
But  you  're  playing  the  cobbler  with  holes  in  your  shoes ; 
Your  brown  side  is  up,  —  but  just  wait  till  you  're  tried, 
And  you  '11  find  that  all  flounders  are  white  on  one  side." 


There  's  a  slice  near  the  PICKEREL'S  pectoral  fins, 
Where  the  thorax  leaves  off  and  the  venter  begins  ; 
Which  his  brother,  survivor  of  fish-hooks  and  lines, 
Though  fond  of  his  family,  never  declines. 


LINES.  179 

He  loves  his  relations ;  he  feels  they  '11  be  missed ; 
But  that  one  little  tit-bit  he  cannot  resist ; 
So  your  bait  may  be  swallowed,  no  matter  how  fast, 
For  you  catch  your  next  fish  with  a  piece  of  the  last. 

And  thus,  O  survivor,  whose  merciless  fate 
Is  to  take  the  next  hook  with  the  president's  bait, 
You  are  lost  while  you  snatch  from  the  end  of  his  line 
The  morsel  he  rent  from  this  bosom  of  mine  ! 


SONG, 

FOR    A  TEMPERANCE    DINNER    TO  WHICH   LADIES  WERE  INVITED. 
(NEW  YORK  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY  ASSOCIATION,  NOV.  1842.) 


A  HEALTH  to  dear  woman !  She  bids  us  untwine, 
From  the  cup  it  encircles,  the  fast-clinging  vine ; 
But  her  cheek  in  its  crystal  with  pleasure  will  glow, 
And  mirror  its  bloom  in  the  bright  wave  below. 

A  health  to  sweet  woman !  The  days  are  no  more 
When  she  watched  for  her  lord  till  the  revel  was  o'er, 
And  smoothed  the  white  pillow,  and  blushed  when  he 

came, 
As  she  pressed  her  cold  lips  on  his  forehead  of  flame. 

Alas  for  the  loved  one  !  too  spotless  and  fair 
The  joys  of  his  banquet  to  chasten  and  share ; 
Her  eye  lost  its  light  that  his  goblet  might  shine, 
And  the  rose  of  her  cheek  was  dissolved  in  his  wine. 


SONG.  181 

Joy  smiles  in  the  fountain,  health  flows  in  the  rills, 
As  their  ribands  of  silver  unwind  from  the  hills ; 
They  breathe  not  the  mist  of  the  bacchanal's  dream, 
But  the  lilies  of  innocence  float  on  their  stream. 

Then  a  health  and  a  welcome  to  woman  once  more ! 
She  brings  us  a  passport  that  laughs  at  our  door ; 
It  is  written  on  crimson,  — its  letters  are  pearls,— 
It  is  countersigned  Nature. So,  room  for  the  Girls  ! 


THE    ONLY   DAUGHTER. 

(ILLUSTRATION  OF  A  PICTURE.) 


THEY  bid  me  strike  the  idle  strings, 

As  if  my  summer  days 
Had  shaken  sunbeams  from  their  wings, 

To  warm  my  autumn  lays ; 
They  bring  to  me  their  painted  urn, 

As  if  it  were  not  time 
To  lift  my  gauntlet  and  to  spurn 

The  lists  of  boyish  rhyme ; 
And,  were  it  not  that  I  have  still 

Some  weakness  in  my  heart 
That  clings  around  my  stronger  will 

And  pleads  for  gentler  art, 
Perchance  I  had  not  turned  away 

The  thoughts  grown  tame  with  toil, 
To  cheat  this  lone  and  pallid  ray, 

That  wastes  the  midnight  oil. 


THE    ONLY   DAUGHTER.  183 

Alas  !  with  every  year  I  feel 

Some  roses  leave  my  brow ; 
Too  young  for  wisdom's  tardy  seal, 

Too  old  for  garlands  now ; 
Yet,  while  the  dewy  breath  of  spring 

Steals  o'er  the  tingling  air, 
And  spreads  and  fans  each  emerald  wing 

The  forest  soon  shall  wear, 
How  bright  the  opening  year  would  seem, 

Had  I  one  look  like  thine, 
To  meet  me  when  the  morning  beam 

Unseals  these  lids  of  mine  ! 
Too  long  I  bear  this  lonely  lot, 

That  bids  my  heart  run  wild 
To  press  the  lips  that  love  me  not, 

To  clasp  the  stranger's  child. 

How  oft  beyond  the  dashing  seas, 

Amidst  those  royal  bowers, 
Where  danced  the  lilacs  in  the  breeze, 

And  swung  the  chestnut  flowers, 
I  wandered  like  a  wearied  slave 

Whose  morning  task  is  done, 
To  watch  the  little  hands  that  gave 

Their  whiteness  to  the  sun ; 


184  THE    ONLY    DAUGHTER. 

To  revel  in  the  bright  young  eyes, 

Whose  lustre  sparkled  through 
The  sable  fringe  of  southern  skies, 

Or  gleamed  in  Saxon  blue  ! 
How  oft  I  heard  another's  name 

Called  in  some  truant's  tone  ; 
Sweet  accents  !  which  I  longed  to  claim, 

To  learn  and  lisp  my  own  ! 

Too  soon  the  gentle  hands,  that  pressed 

The  ringlets  of  the  child, 
Are  folded  on  the  faithful  breast 

Where  first  he  breathed  and  smiled ; 
Too  oft  the  clinging  arms  untwine, 

The  melting  lips  forget, 
And  darkness  veils  the  bridal  shrine 

Where  wreaths  and  torches  met ; 
If  Heaven  but  leaves  a  single  thread 

Of  Hope's  dissolving  chain, 
Even  when  her  parting  plumes  are  spread, 

It  bids  them  fold  again ; 
The  cradle  rocks  beside  the  tomb ; 

The  cheek  now  changed  and  chill, 
Smiles  on  us  in  the  morning  bloom 

Of  one  that  loves  us  still. 


THE  ONLY  DAUGHTER.  185 

Sweet  image !  I  have  done  thee  wrong 

To  claim  this  destined  lay ; 
The  leaf  that  asked  an  idle  song 

Must  bear  my  tears  away. 
Yet,  in  thy  memory  shouldst  thou  keep 

This  else  forgotten  strain, 
Till  years  have  taught  thine  eyes  to  weep 

And  flattery's  voice  is  vain ; 
O  then,  thou  fledgling  of  the  nest, 

Like  the  long-wandering  dove, 
Thy  weary  heart  may  faint  for  rest, 

As  mine,  on  changeless  love ; 
And,  while  these  sculptured  lines  retrace 

The  hours  now  dancing  by, 
This  vision  of  thy  girlish  grace 

May  cost  thee,  too,  a  sigh. 


LEXINGTON. 


SLOWLY  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was  creeping, 

Bright  on  the  dewy  buds  glistened  the  sun, 
When  from  his  couch,  while  his  children  were  sleeping, 
Eose  the  bold  rebel  and  shouldered  his  gun. 

Waving  her  golden  veil 

Over  the  silent  dale, 
Blithe  looked  the  morning  on  cottage  and  spire ; 

Hushed  was  his  parting  sigh, 

While  from  his  noble  eye 
Flashed  the  last  sparkle  of  liberty's  fire. 

On  the  smooth  green  where  the  fresh  leaf  is  springing 
Calmly  the  first-born  of  glory  have  met ; 

Hark !  the  death-volley  around  them  is  ringing ! 
Look  !  with  their  life-blood  the  young  grass  is  wet ! 


LEXINGTON.  187 

Faint  is  the  feeble  breath, 

Murmuring  low  in  death, 
"  Tell  to  our  sons  how  their  fathers  have  died ;" 

Nerveless  the  iron  hand, 

Raised  for  its  native  land, 
Lies  by  the  weapon  that  gleams  at  its  side. 

Over  the  hill-sides  the  wild  knell  is  tolling, 

From  their  far  hamlets  the  yeomanry  come ; 
As  through  the  storm-clouds  the  thunder-burst  rolling, 
Circles  the  beat  of  the  mustering  drum. 

Fast  on  the  soldier's  path 

Darken  the  waves  of  wrath, 
Long  have  they  gathered  and  loud  shall  they  fall ; 

Red  glares  the  musket's  flash, 

Sharp  rings  the  rifle's  crash, 
Blazing  and  clanging  from  thicket  and  wall. 

Gaily  the  plume  of  the  horseman  was  dancing, 

Never  to  shadow  his  cold  brow  again ; 
Proudly  at  morning  the  \var-steed  was  prancing, 
Reeking  and  panting  he  droops  on  the  rein ; 
Pale  is  the  lip  of  scorn, 
Voiceless  the  trumpet  horn, 
Torn  is  the  silken-fringed  red  cross  on  high ; 


188  LEXINGTON. 

Many  a  belted  breast 
Low  on  the  turf  shall  rest, 
Ere  the  dark  hunters  the  herd  have  past  by. 

Snow-girdled  crags  where  the  hoarse  wind  is  raving, 

Eocks  where  tho  weary  floods  murmur  and  wail, 
Wilds  where  the  fern  by  the  furrow  is  waving, 
Reeled  with  the  echoes  that  rode  on  the  gale ; 

Far  as  the  tempest  thrills 

Over  the  darkened  hills, 
Far  as  the  sunshine  streams  over  the  plain, 

Roused  by  the  tyrant  band, 

Woke  all  the  mighty  land, 
Girded  for  battle,  from  mountain  to  main. 

Green  be  the  graves  where  her  martyrs  are  lying ! 

Shroudless  and  tombless  they  sunk  to  their  rest, — 
While  o'er  their  ashes  the  starry  fold  flying 

Wraps  the  proud  eagle  they  roused  from  his  nest. 

Borne  on  her  northern  pine, 

Long  o'er  the  foaming  brine 
Spread  her  broad  banner  to  storm  and  to  sun ; 

Heaven  keep  her  ever  free, 

Wide  as  o'er  land  and  sea 
Floats  the  fair  emblem  her  heroes  have  won. 


THE    ISLAND    HUNTING    SONG 


No  more  the  summer  floweret  charms, 

The  leaves  will  soon  be  sere, 
And  Autumn  folds  his  jew*elled  arms 

Around  the  dying  year  ; 
So,  ere  the  waning  seasons  claim 

Our  leafless  groves  a  while, 
With  golden  wine  and  glowing  flame 

We  '11  crown  our  lonely  isle. 

Once  more  the  merry  voices  sound 

Within  the  antlered  hall, 
And  long  and  loud  the  baying  hounds 

Return  the  hunter's  call ; 
And  through  the  woods,  and  o'er  the  hill, 

And  far  along  the  bay, 
The  driver's  horn  is  sounding  shrill, — 

Up,  sportsmen,  and  away ! 


190  THE    ISLAND   HUNTING   SONG. 

No  bars  of  steel,  or  walls  of  stone, 

Our  little  empire  bound, 
But,  circling  with  his  azure  zone, 

The  sea  runs  foaming  round  ; 
The  whitening  wave,  the  purpled  skies, 

The  blue  and  lifted  shore, 
Braid  with  their  dim  and  blending  dyes 

Our  wide  horizon  o'er. 

And  who  will  leave  the  grave  debate 

That  shakes  the  smoky  town, 
To  rule  amid  our  island-state, 

And  wear  our  oak-leaf  crown  ? 
And  who  will  be  a  while  content 

To  hunt  our  woodland  game, 
And  leave  the  vulgar  pack  that  scent 

The  reeking  track  of  fame  ? 

Ah,  who  that  shares  in  toils  like  these 

Will  sigh  not  to  prolong 
Our  days  beneath  the  broad-leaved  trees, 

Our  nights  of  mirth  and  song  ? 
Then  leave  the  dust  of  noisy  streets, 

Ye  outlaws  of  the  wood, 
And  follow  through  his  green  retreats 

Your  noble  Robin  Hood. 


X 
QUESTIONS    AND    ANSWERS. 


WHERE,  O  where  are  the  visions  of  morning, 
Fresh  as  the  dews  of  our  prime  ? 

Gone,  like  tenants  that  quit  without  warning, 
Down  the  back  entry  of  time. 

Where,  O  where  are  life's  lilies  and  roses, 
Nursed  in  the  golden  dawn's  smile  ? 

Dead  as  the  bulrushes  round  little  Moses, 
On  the  old  banks  of  the  Nile. 

Where  are  the  Marys,  and  Anns,  and  Elizas, 

Loving  and  lovely  of  yore  ? 
Look  in  the  columns  of  old  Advertisers, — 

Married  and  dead  by  the  score. 


192  QUESTIONS   AND   ANSWERS. 

Where  the  gray  colts  and  the  ten-year-old  fillies, 

Saturday's  triumph  and  joy  ? 
Gone  like  our  friend  n6da$  a>xv$  Achilles, 

Homer's  ferocious  old  boy. 

Die-away  dreams  of  ecstatic  emotion, 
Hopes  like  young  eagles  at  play, 

Vows  of  unheard  of  and  endless  devotion, 
How  ye  have  faded  away ! 

Yet,  though  the  ebbing  of  Time's  mighty  river 
L  eave  our  young  blossoms  to  die, 

Let  him  roll  smooth  in  his  current  for  ever, 
Till  the  last  pebble  is  dry. 


A    SONG 

FOR  THE  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION  OF    HARVARD  COLLEGE, 

WHEN  the  Puritans  came  over, 

Our  hills  and  swamps  to  clear, 
The  woods  were  full  of  catamounts, 

And  Indians  red  as  deer, 
With  tomahawks  and  scalping-knives, 

That  make  folks'  heads  look  queer  ;  — 
0  the  ship  from  England  used  to  bring 

A  hundred  wigs  a  year ! 

The  crows  came  cawing  through  the  air 

To  pluck  the  pilgrims'  corn, 
The  bears  came  snuffing  round  the  door 

Whene'er  a  babe  was  born, 
The  rattlesnakes  were  bigger  round 

Than  the  butt  of  the  old  ram's  horn 
The  deacon  blew  at  meeting  time 

On  every  "  Sabbath  "  morn. 

13 


194  A   CENTENNIAL   SONG. 

But  soon  they  knocked  the  wigwams  down, 

And  pine-tree  trunk  and  limb 
Began  to  sprout  among  the  leaves 

In  shape  of  steeples  slim ; 
And  out  the  little  wharves  were  stretched 

Along  the  ocean's  rim, 
And  up  the  little  schoolhouse  shot 

To  keep  the  boys  in  trim. 

And,  when  at  length  the  College  rose, 

The  sachem  cocked  his  eye 
At  every  tutor's  meagre  ribs 

Whose  coat-tails  whistled  by  ; 
But,  when  the  Greek  and  Hebrew  words 

Came  tumbling  from  their  jaws, 
The  copper-colored  children  all 

Ran  screaming  to  the  squaws. 

And  who  was  on  the  Catalogue 

When  college  was  begun  ? 
Two  nephews  of  the  President, 

And  the  Professor's  son, 
(They  turned  a  little  Indian  by, 

As  brown  as  any  bun ;) 
Lord  !  how  the  seniors  knocked  about 

The  freshman  class  of  one  ! 


A   CENTENNIAL   SONG.  195 

They  had  not  then  the  dainty  things 

That  commons  now  afford, 
But  succotash  and  homomj 

Were  smoking  on  the  board  ; 
They  did  not  rattle  round  in  gigs, 

Or  dash  in  long-tail  blues, 
But  always  on  Commencement  days 

The  tutors  blacked  their  shoes. 

God  bless  the  ancient  Puritans  ! 

Their  lot  was  hard  enough ; 
But  honest  hearts  make  iron  arms, 

And  tender  maids  are  tough  ; 
So  love  and  faith  have  formed  and  fed 

Our  true-born  Yankee  stuff, 
And  keep  the  kernel  in  the  shell 

The  British  found  so  rough ! 


TERPSICHORE.* 


In  narrowest  girdle,  0  reluctant  Muse, 
In  closest  frock  and  Cinderella  shoes, 
Bound  to  the  foot-lights  for  thy  brief  display, 
One  zephyr  step,  and  then  dissolve  away ! 


SHORT  is  the  space  that  gods  and  men  can  spare 
To  Song's  twin  brother  when  she  is  not  there. 
Let  others  water  every  lusty  line, 
As  Homer's  heroes  did  their  purple  wine ; 
Pierian  revellers  !  Know  in  strains  like  these 
The  native  juice,  the  real  honest  squeeze,  — 
Strains  that,  diluted  to  the  twentieth  power, 
In  yon  grave  templet  might  have  filled  an  hour. 

*  Read  at  the  Annual  Dinnerof  the  cf>.  B.  K.  Society,  atCambridge, 
August  24,  1843. 
f  The  Annual  Poem  is  always  delivered  in  the  neighbouring  church. 


TERPSICHORE.  197 

Small  room  for  Fancy's  many-chorded  lyre, 

For  Wit's  bright  rockets  with  their  trains  of  fire, 

For  Pathos,  struggling  vainly  to  surprise 

The  iron  tutor's  tear-denying  eyes, 

For  Mirth,  whose  finger  with  delusive  wile 

Turns  the  grim  key  of  many  a  rusty  smile, 

For  Satire,  emptying  his  corrosive  flood 

On  hissing  Folly's  gas-exhaling  brood, 

The  pun,  the  fun,  the  moral  and  the  joke, 

The  hit,  the  thrust,  the  pugilistic  poke,  — 

Small  space  for  these,  so  pressed  by  niggard  Time, 

Like  that  false  matron,  knowrn  to  nursery  rhyme, — 

Insidious  Morey,  —  scarce  her  tale  begun, 

Ere  listening  infants  weep  the  story  done. 

O  had  we  room  to  rip  the  mighty  bags 

That  Time,  the  harlequin,  has  stuffed  with  rags ! 

Grant  us  one  moment  to  unloose  the  strings, 

While  the  old  gray-beard  shuts  his  leather  wings. 

But  what  a  heap  of  motley  trash  appears 

Crammed  in  the  bundles  of  successive  years ! 

As  the  lost  rustic  on  some  festal  day 

Stares  through  the  concourse  in  its  vast  array,  — 

Where  in  one  cake  a  throng  of  faces  runs, 

All  stuck  together  like  a  sheet  of  buns,  — 


198  TERPSICHORE. 

And  throws  the  bait  of  some  unheeded  name, 

Or  shoots  a  wink  with  most  uncertain  aim, 

So  roams  my  vision,  wandering  over  all, 

And  strives  to  choose,  but  knows  not  where  to  fall. 

Skins  of  flayed  authors, — husks  of  dead  reviews, — 

The  turn-coat's  clothes, — the  office-seeker's  shoes, — 

Scraps  from  cold  feasts,  where  conversation  runs 

Through  mouldy  toasts  to  oxydated  puns, 

And  grating  songs  a  listening  crowd  endures, 

Rasped  from  the  throats  of  bellowing  amateurs ;  — 

Sermons,  whose  writers  played  such  dangerous  tricks 

Their  own  heresiarchs  called  them  heretics, 

(Strange  that  one  term  such  distant  poles  should  link, 

The  Priestleyan's  copper  and  the  Puseyan's  zinc;)  — 

Poems  that  shuffle  with  superfluous  legs 

A  blindfold  minuet  over  addled  eggs, 

Where  all  the  syllables  that  end  in  ed, 

Like  old  dragoons,  have  cuts  across  the  head;  — 

Essays  so  dark  Champollion  might  despair 

To  guess  what  mummy  of  a  thought  was  there, 

Where  our  poor  English,  striped  with  foreign  phrase, 

Looks  like  a  Zebra  in  a  parson's  chaise ;  — 

Lectures  that  cut  our  dinners  down  to  roots, 

Or  prove  (by  monkeys)  men  should  stick  to  fruits  ; 


TERPSICHORE.  199 

Delusive  error, — as  at  trifling  charge 
Professor  Gripes  will  certify  at  large  ;  — 
Mesmeric  pamphlets,  which  to  facts  appeal, 
Each  fact  as  slippery  as  a  fresh-caught  eel ;  — 
And  figured  heads,  whose  hieroglyphs  invite 
To  wandering  knaves  that  discount  fools  at  sight ;  — 
Such  things  as  these,  with  heaps  of  unpaid  bills, 
And  candy  puffs  and  homoeopathic  pills, 
And  ancient  bell-crowns  with  contracted  rim, 
And  bonnets  hideous  with  expanded  brim, 
And  coats  whose  memory  turns  the  sartor  pale, 
Their  sequels  tapering  like  a  lizard's  tail ;  — 
How  might  we  spread  them  to  the  smiling  day, 
And  toss  them,  fluttering  like  the  new-mown  hay, 
To  laughter's  light  or  sorrow's  pitying  shower, 
Were  these  brief  minutes  lengthened  to  an  hour. 

The  narrow  moments  fit  like  Sunday  shoes, 
How  vast  the  heap,  how  quickly  must  we  choose ; 
A  few  small  scraps  from  out  his  mountain  mass 
We  snatch  in  haste,  and  let  the  vagrant  pass. 

This  shrunken  CRUST  that  Cerberus  could  not  bite, 
Stamped  (in  one  corner)  "  Pickwick  copyright," 


200  TERPSICHORE. 

Kneaded  by  youngsters,  raised  by  flattery's  yeast, 
Was  once  a  loaf,  and  helped  to  make  a  feast. 
He  for  whose  sake  the  glittering  show  appears 
Has  sown  the  world  with  laughter  and  with  tears, 
And  they  whose  welcome  wets  the  bumper's  brim 
Have  wit  and  wisdom, — for  they  all  quote  him. 
So,  many  a  tongue  the  evening  hour  prolongs 
With  spangled  speeches, — let  alone  the  songs, — 
Statesmen  grow  merry,  lean  attorneys  laugh, 
And  weak  teetotals  warm  to  half  and  half, 
And  beardless  Tullys,  new  to  festive  scenes, 
Cut  their  first  crop  of  youth's  precocious  greens, 
And  wits  stand  ready  for  impromptu  claps, 
With  loaded  barrels  and  percussion  caps, 
And  Pathos,  cantering  through  the  minor  keys, 
Waves  all  her  onions  to  the  trembling  breeze ; 
While  the  great  Feasted  views  with  silent  glee 
His  scattered  limbs  in  Yankee  fricassee. 


Sweet  is  the  scene  where  genial  friendship  plays 

The  pleasing  game  of  interchanging  praise ; 

Self-love,  grimalkin  of  the  human  heart, 

Is  ever  pliant  to  the  master's  art ; 

Soothed  with  a  word,  she  peacefully  withdraws 

And  sheathes  in  velvet  her  obnoxious  claws, 


TERPSICHORE.  201 

And  thrills  the  hand  that  smooths  her  glossy  fur 
With  the  light  tremor  of  her  grateful  purr. 

But  what  sad  music  fills  the  quiet  hall, 

If  on  her  back  a  feline  rival  fall ; 

And  0,  what  noises  shake  the  tranquil  house, 

If  old  Self-interest  cheats  her  of  a  mouse  ! 

Thou,  O  my  country,  hast  thy  foolish  ways, 
Too  apt  to  purr  at  every  stranger's  praise ; 
But,  if  the  stranger  touch  thy  modes  or  laws, 
Off  goes  the  velvet  and  out  come  the  claws ! 
And  thou,  Illustrious !  but  too  poorly  paid 
In  toasts  from  Pickwick  for  thy  great  crusade, 
Though,  while  the  echoes  labored  with  thy  name, 
The  public  trap  denied  thy  little  game, 
Let  other  lips  our  jealous  laws  revile, — 
The  marble  Talfourd  or  the  rude  Carlyle, — 
But  on  thy  lids,  that  Heaven  forbids  to  close 
Where'er  the  light  of  kindly  nature  glows, 
Let  not  the  dollars  that  a  churl  denies 
Weigh  like  the  shillings  on  a  dead  man's  eyes ! 
Or,  if  thou  wilt,  be  more  discreetly  blind, 
Nor  ask  to  see  all  wide  extremes  combined. 


202  TERPSICHORE. 

Not  in  our  wastes  the  dainty  blossoms  smile, 

That  crowd  the  gardens  of  thy  scanty  isle. 

There  white-cheeked  Luxury  weaves  a  thousand  charms  ;- 

Here  sun-browned  Labor  swings  his  naked  arms. 

Long  are  the  furrows  he  must  trace  between 

The  ocean's  azure  and  the  prairie's  green ; 

Full  many  a  blank  his  destined  realm  displays, 

Yet  see  the  promise  of  his  riper  days : 

Far  through  yon  depths  the  panting  engine  moves, 

His  chariots  ringing  in  their  steel-shod  grooves ; 

And  Erie's  naiad  flings  her  diamond  wave 

O'er  the  wild  sea-nymph  in  her  distant  cave ! 

While  tasks  like  these  employ  his  anxious  hours, 

What  if  his  corn-fields  are  not  edged  with  flowers  ? 

Though  bright  as  silver  the  meridian  beams 

Shine  through  the  crystal  of  thine  English  streams, 

Turbid  and  dark  the  mighty  wave  is  whirled 

That  drains  our  Andes  and  divides  a  world ! 

But  lo !  a  PARCHMENT  !  Surely  it  would  seem 
The  sculptured  impress  speaks  of  power  supreme ; 
Some  grave  design  the  solemn  page  must  claim 
That  shows  so  broadly  an  emblazoned  name  ; 
A  sovereign's  promise  !     Look,  the  lines  afford 
All  Honor  gives  when  Caution  asks  his  word ; 


TERPSICHORE.  203 

There  sacred  Faith  has  laid  her  snow-white  hands, 

And  awful  Justice  knit  her  iron  bands  • 

Yet  every  leaf  is  stained  with  treachery's  dye, 

And  every  letter  crusted  with  a  lie. 

Alas !  no  treason  has  degraded  yet 

The  Arab's  salt,  the  Indian's  calumet; 

A  simple  rite,  that  bears  the  wanderer's  pledge, 

Blunts  the  keen  shaft  and  turns  the  dagger's  edge  ;  — 

While  jockeying  senates  stop  to  sign  and  seal, 

And  freeborn  statesmen  legislate  to  steal. 

Rise,  Europe,  tottering  with  thine  Atlas  load, 

Turn  thy  proud  eye  to  Freedom's  blest  abode, 

And  round  her  forehead,  wreathed  with  heavenly  flame, 

Bind  the  dark  garland  of  her  daughter's  shame ! 

Ye  ocean  clouds,  that  wrap  the  angry  blast, 

Coil  her  stained  ensign  round  its  haughty  mast, 

Or  tear  the  fold  that  wears  so  foul  a  scar, 

And  drive  a  bolt  through  every  blackened  star ! 

Once  more, — once  only, — we  must  stop  so  soon, — 

What  have  we  here  ?     A  GERMAN-SILVER  SPOON  ; 

A  cheap  utensil,  which  we  often  see 

Used  by  the  dabblers  in  esthetic  tea ; 

Of  slender  fabric,  somewhat  light  and  thin, 

Made  of  mixed  metal,  chiefly  lead  and  tin ; 


204  TERPSICHORE. 

The  bowl  is  shallow,  and  the  handle  small 
Marked  in  large  letters  with  the  name  JEAN  PAUL. 
Small  as  it  is,  its  powers  are  passing  strange, 
For  all  who  use  it  show  a  wondrous  change ; 
And  first,  a  fact  to  make  the  barbers  stare, 
It  beats  Macassar  for  the  growth  of  hair ; 
See  those  small  youngsters  whose  expansive  ears 
Maternal  kindness  grazed  with  frequent  shears ; 
Each  bristling  crop  a  dangling  mass  becomes, 
And  all  the  spoonies  turn  to  Absaloms ! 
Nor  this  alone  its  magic  power  displays, 
It  alters  strangely  all  their  works  and  \vays ; 
With  uncouth  words  they  tire  their  tender  lungs, 
The  same  bald  phrases  on  their  hundred  tongues ; 
"  Ever"  "  The  Ages"  in  their  page  appear, 
"Alway"  the  bedlamite  is  called  a  "  Seer"; 
On  every  leaf  the  "earnest"  sage  may  scan, 
Portentous  bore!  their  "many-sided"  man, — 
A  weak  eclectic,  groping  vague  and  dim, 
Whose  every  angle  is  a  half-starved  whim, 
Blind  as  a  mole  and  curious  as  a  lynx, 
Who  rides  a  beetle,  which  he  calls  a  "  Sphinx." 
And  O  what  questions  asked  in  club-foot  rhyme 
Of  Earth  the  tongueless  and  the  deaf-mute  Time ! 


TERPSICHORE.  205 

Here  babbling  "Insight"  shouts  in  Nature's  ears 

His  last  conundrum  on  the  orbs  and  spheres ; 

There  Self-inspection  sucks  its  little  thumb, 

With  "Whence  am  I  ?"  and  "  Wherefore  did  I  come  ?" 

Deluded  infants  !  will  they  ever  know 

Some  doubts  must  darken  o'er  the  world  below, 

Though  all  the  Platos  of  the  nursery  trail 

Their  "  clouds  of  glory"  at  the  go-cart's  tail  ? 

O  might  these  couplets  their  attention  claim, 

That  gain  their  author  the  Philistine's  name  ; 

(A  stubborn  race,  that,  spurning  foreign  law, 

Was  much  belabored  with  an  ass's  jaw !) 

Melodious  Laura !     From  the  sad  retreats 

That  hold  thee,  smothered  with  excess  of  S'veets, 

Shade  of  a  shadow,  spectre  of  a  dream, 

Glance  thy  wan  eye  across  the  Stygian  stream  ! 

The  slip-shod  dreamer  treads  thy  fragrant  halls, 

The  sophist's  cobwebs  hang  thy  roseate  walls, 

And  o'er  the  crotchets  of  thy  jingling  tunes 

The  bard  of  mystery  scrawls  his  crooked  "  runes." 

Yes,  thou  art  gone,  with  all  the  tuneful  hordes 

That  candied  thoughts  in  amber-colored  words, 

And  in  the  precincts  of  thy  late  abodes 

The  clattering  verse-wright  hammers  Orphic  odes. 


206  TERPSICHORE. 

Thou,  soft  as  zephyr,  wast  content  to  fly 
On  the  gilt  pinions  of  a  balmy  sigh ; 
He,  vast  as  Phoebus  on  his  burning  wheels, 
Would  stride  through  ether  at  Orion's  heels ; 
Thy  emblem,  Laura,  was  a  perfume-jar, 
And  thine,  young  Orpheus,  is  a  pewter  star ; 
The  ba'ance  trembles, — be  its  verdict  told 
When  the  new  jargon  slumbers  with  the  old ! 


Cease,  playful  goddess  !     From  thine  airy  bound 
Drop  like  a  feather  softly  to  the  ground ; 
This  light  bolero  grows  a  ticklish  dance, 
And  there  is  mischief  in  thy  kindling  glance. 
To-morrow  bids  thee,  with  rebuking  frown, 
Change  thy  gauze  tunic  for  a  home-madr  gown, 
Too  blest  by  fortune,  if  the  passing  day 
Adorn  thy  bosom  with  its  frail  bouquet, 
But  O  still  happier  if  the  next  forgets 
Thy  daring  steps  and  dangerous  pirouettes ! 


URANIA: 

A     RHYMED     LESSON 


YES,  dear  Enchantress, — wandering  far  and  long, 
In  realms  unperfumed  by  the  breath  of  song, 
Where  flowers  ill-flavored  shed  their  sweets  around, 
And  bitterest  roots  invade  the  ungenial  ground, 
Whose  gems  are  crystals  from  the  Epsom  mine, 
Whose  vineyards  flow  with  antimonial  wine, 
Whose  gates  admit  no  mirthful  feature  in, 
Save  one  gaunt  mocker,  the  Sardonic  grin, 
Whose  pangs  are  real,  not  the  woes  of  rhyme 
That  blue-eyed  misses  warble  out  of  time  ;  — 
Truant,  not  recreant  to  thy  sacred  claim, 
Older  by  reckoning,  but  in  heart  the  same, 
Freed  for  a  moment  from  the  chains  of  toil, 
I  tread  once  more  thy  consecrated  soil ; 
Here  at  thy  feet  my  old  allegiance  own, 
Thy  subject  still,  and  loyal  to  thy  throne  ! 

*  This  poem  was  delivered  before  the  Boston  Mercantile  Library 
Association,  October  14,  1846. 


208  URANIA  : 

My  dazzled  glance  explores  the  crowded  hall ; 
Alas,  how  vain  to  hope  the  smiles  of  all ! 
I  know  my  audience.     Ah1  the  gay  and  young 
Love  the  light  antics  of  a  playful  tongue ; 
And  these,  remembering  some  expansive  line 
My  lips  let  loose  among  the  nuts  and  wine, 
Are  all  impatience  till  the  opening  pun 
Proclaim  the  witty  shamfight  is  begun. 
Two  fifths  at  least,  if  not  the  total  half, 
Have  come  infuriate  for  an  earthquake  laugh ; 
I  know  full  well  what  alderman  has  tied 
His  red  bandanna  tight  about  his  side ; 
I  see  the  mother,  who,  aware  that  boys 
Perform  their  laughter  with  superfluous  noise, 
Beside  her  kerchief,  brought  an  extra  one 
To  stop  the  explosions  of  her  bursting  son ; 
I  know  a  tailor,  once  a  friend  of  mine, 
Expects  great  doings  in  the  button  line  ;  — 
For  mirth's  concussions  rip  the  outward  case, 
And  plant  the  stitches  in  a  tenderer  place. 
I  know  my  audience ;  —  these  shall  have  their  due  ; 
A  smile  awaits  them  ere  my  song  is  through ! 

I  know  myself.     Not  servile  for  applause, 
My  Muse  permits  no  deprecating  clause ; 


A   RHYMED    LESSON.  209 

Modest  or  vain,  she  will  not  be  denied 
One  bold  confession,  due  to  honest  pride; 
And  well  she  knows,  the  drooping  veil  of  song 
Shall  save  her  boldness  from  the  caviller's  wrong. 
Her  sweeter  voice  the  Heavenly  Maid  imparts 
To  tell  the  secrets  of  our  aching  hearts ; 
For  this,  a  suppliant,  captive,  prostrate,  bound, 
She  kneels  imploring  at  the  feet  of  sound ; 
For  this,  convulsed  in  thought's  maternal  pains, 
She  loads  her  arms  with  rhyme's  resounding  chains ; 
Faint  though  the  music  of  her  fetters  be, 
It  lends  one  charm;  —  her  lips  are  ever  free  ! 

Think  not  I  come,  in  manhood's  fiery  noon, 
To  steal  his  laurels  from  the  stage  buffoon ; 
His  sword  of  lath  the  harlequin  may  wield ; 
Behold  the  star  upon  my  lifted  shield ! 
Though  the  just  critic  pass  my  humble  name, 
And  sweeter  lips  have  drained  the  cup  of  fame, 
While  my  gay  stanza  pleased  the  banquet's  lords, 
The  soul  within  was  tuned  to  deeper  chords  ! 
Say,  shall  my  arms,  in  other  conflicts  taught 
To  swing  aloft  the  ponderous  mace  of  thought, 
Lift,  in  obedience  to  a  school-girl's  law, 
Mirth's  tinsel  wand  or  laughter's  tickling  straw  ? 


210  URANIA  : 

Say,  shall  I  wound  with  satire's  rankling  spear 
The  pure,  warm  hearts  that  bid  me  welcome  here  ? 
No !  while  I  wander  through  the  land  of  dreams 
To  strive  with  great  and  play  with  trifling  themes, 
Let  some  kind  meaning  fill  the  varied  line ; 
You  have  your  judgment ;  will  you  trust  to  mine  ? 


BETWEEN  two  breaths  what  crowded  mysteries  lie,  — 
The  first  short  gasp,  the  last  and  long-drawn  sigh ! 
Like  phantoms  painted  on  the  magic  slide, 
Forth  from  the  darkness  of  the  past  we  glide, 
As  living  shadows  for  a  moment  seen 
In  airy  pageant  on  the  eternal  screen, 
Traced  by  a  ray  from  one  unchanging  flame, 
Then  seek  the  dust  and  stillness  whence  we  came. 

But  whence  and  why,  our  trembling  souls  inquire, 
Caught  these  dim  visions  their  awakening  fire  ? 

0  who  forgets  when  first  the  piercing  thought 
Through  childhood's  musings  found  its  way  unsought. 

1  AM;  —  I  LIVE.    The  mystery  and  the  fear 

When   the   dread  question  —  WHAT  HAS   BROUGHT  ME 
HERE  ? 


A    RHYMED   LESSON.  21] 

Burst  through  life's  twilight,  as  before  the  sun 
Roll  the  deep  thunders  of  the  morning  gun ! 

Are  angel  faces,  silent  and  serene, 
Bent  on  the  conflicts  of  this  little  scene, 
Whose  dreamlike  efforts,  whose  unreal  strife, 
Are  but  the  preludes  to  a  larger  life  ? 

Or  does  life's  summer  see  the  end  of  all, 
These  leaves  of  being  mouldering  as  they  fall, 
As  the  old  poet  vaguely  used  to  deem, 
As  WESLEY  questioned  in  his  youthful  dream  ? l 
O  could  such  mockery  reach  our  souls  indeed, 
Give  back  the  Pharaohs'  or  the  Athenian's  creed ; 
Better  than  this  a  Heaven  of  man's  device,  — 
The  Indian's  sports,  the  Moslem's  paradise ! 

Or  is  our  being's  only  end  and  aim 
To  add  new  glories  to  our  Maker's  name, 
As  the  poor  insect,  shrivelling  in  the  blaze, 
Lends  a  faint  sparkle  to  its  streaming  rays  ? 
Does  earth  send  upwards  to  the  Eternal's  ear 
The  mingled  discords  of  her  jarring  sphere 
To  swell  his  anthem,  while  Creation  rings 
With  notes  of  anguish  from  its  shattered  strings  ? 


212  URANIA  ! 

Is  it  for  this  the  immortal  Artist  means 

These  conscious,  throbbing,  agonized  machines  ? 

Dark  is  the  soul  whose  sullen  creed  can  bind 
In  chains  like  these  the  all-embracing  Mind ; 
No !  two-faced  bigot,  thou  dost  ill  reprove 
The  sensual,  selfish,  yet  benignant  Jove, 
And  praise  a  tyrant  throned  in  lonely  pride, 
Who  loves  himself,  and  cares  for  nought  beside  ; 
Who  gave  thee,  summoned  from  primeval  night, 
A  thousand  laws,  and  not  a  single  right ; 
A  heart  to  feel  and  quivering  nerves  to  thrill, 
The  sense  of  wrong,  the  death-defying  will ; 
Who  girt  thy  senses  with  this  goodly  frame, 
Its  earthly  glories  and  its  orbs  of  flame, 
Not  for  thyself,  unworthy  of  a  thought, 
Poor  helpless  victim  of  a  life  unsoug-ht, 
But  all  for  him,  unchanging  and  supreme, 
The  heartless  centre  of  thy  frozen  scheme  ! 

Trust  not  the  teacher  with  his  lying  scroll, 
Who  tears  the  charter  of  thy  shuddering  soul; 
The  God  of  love,  who  gave  the  breath  that  warms 
All  living  dust  in  all  its  varied  forms, 


A   RHYMED   LESSON.  213 

Asks  not  the  tribute  of  a  world  like  this 

To  fill  the  measure  of  his  perfect  bliss. 

Though  winged  with  life  through  all  its  radiant  shores, 

Creation  flowed  with  unexhausted  stores 

Cherub  and  seraph  had  not  yet  enjoyed ; 

For  this  he  called  thee  from  the  quickening  void  ! 

Nor  this  alone  ;  a  larger  gift  was  thine, 

A  mightier  purpose  swelled  his  vast  design ; 

Thought,  —  conscience, —  will,  —  to  make  them  all  thine 

own, 
He  rent  a  pillar  from  the  eternal  throne  ! 

Made  in  his  image,  thou  must  nobly  dare 
The  thorny  crown  of  sovereignty  to  share. 
With  eye  uplifted  it  is  thine  to  view, 
From  thine  own  centre,  Heaven's  o'erarching  blue ; 
So  round  thy  heart  a  beaming  circle  lies 
No  fiend  can  blot,  no  hypocrite  disguise ; 
From  all  its  orbs  one  cheering  voice  is  heard, 
Full  to  thine  ear  it  bears  the  Father's  word, 
Now,  as  in  Eden  where  his  first-born  trod : 
"  Seek  thine  own  welfare,  true  to  man  and  God  !  " 

Think  not  too  meanly  of  thy  low  estate ; 
Thou  hast  a  choice ;  to  choose  is  to  create  ! 


214  URANIA  : 

Remember  whose  the  sacred  lips  that  tell, 
Angels  approve  thee  when  thy  choice  is  well ; 
Remember,  One,  a  judge  of  righteous  men, 
Swore  to  spare  Sodom  if  she  held  but  ten ! 
Use  well  the  freedom  which  thy  Master  gave, 
(Think'st  thou  that  Heaven  can  tolerate  a  slave  ?) 
And  He  who  made  thee  to  be  just  and  true 
Will  bless  thee,  love  thee,  —  ay,  respect  thee  too ! 

Nature  has  placed  thee  on  a  changeful  tide, 
To  breast  its  waves,  but  not  without  a  guide ; 
Yet,  as  the  needle  will  forget  its  aim, 
Jarred  by  the  fury  of  the  electric  flame, 
As  the  true  current  it  will  falsely  feel, 
Warped  from  its  axis  by  a  freight  of  steel ; 
So  will  thy  CONSCIENCE  lose  its  balanced  truth, 
If  passion's  lightning  fall  upon  thy  youth ; 
So  the  pure  effluence  quit  its  sacred  hold, 
Girt  round  too  deeply  with  magnetic  gold. 

Go  to  yon  tower,  where  busy  science  plies 
Her  vast  antennas,  feeling  through  the  skies ; 
That  little  vernier  on  whose  slender  lines 
The  midnight  taper  trembles  as  it  shines, 
A  silent  index,  tracks  the  planets'  march 
In  all  their  wanderings  through  the  ethereal  arch, 


A  RHYMED   LESSON.  215 

Tells  through  the  mist  where  dazzled  Mercury  burns, 
And  marks  the  spot  where  Uranus  returns. 

So,  till  by  wrong  or  negligence  effaced, 
The  living  index  which  thy  Maker  traced 
Repeats  the  line  each  starry  Virtue  draws 
Through  the  wide  circuit  of  creation's  laws ; 
Still  tracks  unchanged  the  everlasting  ray 
Where  the  dark  shadows  of  temptation  stray ; 
But,  once  defaced,  forgets  the  orbs  of  light, 
And  leaves  thee  wandering  o'er  the  expanse  of  night ! 

"  What  is  thy  creed  ?  "  a  hundred  lips  inquire ; 
"  Thou  seekest  God  beneath  what  Christian  spire  ?  " 
Nor  ask  they  idly,  for  uncounted  lies 
Float  upward  on  the  smoke  of  sacrifice  ; 
When  man's  first  incense  rose  above  the  plain, 
Of  earth's  two  altars  one  was  built  by  Cain ! 

Uncursed  by  doubt,  our  earliest  creed  we  take ; 
We  love  the  precepts  for  the  teacher's  sake ; 
The  simple  lessons  which  the  nursery  taught 
Fell  soft  and  stainless  on  the  buds  of  thought, 
And  the  full  blossom  owes  its  fairest  hue 
To  those  sweet  tear-drops  of  affection's  dew. 

Too  oft  the  light  that  led  our  earlier  hours 
Fades  with  the  perfume  of  our  cradle  flowers ; 


216  URANIA: 

The  clear,  cold  question  chills  to  frozen  doubt ; 
Tired  of  beliefs^  we  dread  to  live  without ; 
0  then,  if  reason  waver  at  thy  side, 
Let  humbler  Memory  be  thy  gentle  guide ; 
Go  to  thy  birth-place,  and,  if  faith  was  there, 
Repeat  thy  father's  creed,  thy  mother's  prayer ! 

Faith  loves  to  lean  on  Time's  destroying  arm. 
And  age,  like  distance,  lends  a  double  charm ; 
In  dim  cathedrals,  dark  with  vaulted  gloom, 
What  holy  awe  invests  the  saintly  tomb ! 
There  pride  will  bow,  and  anxious  care  expand, 
And  creeping  avarice  come  with  open  hand ; 
The  gay  can  weep,  the  impious  can  adore, 
From  morn's  first  glimmerings  on  the  chancel  floor 
Till  dying  sunset  sheds  his  crimson  stains 
Through  the  faint  halos  of  the  irised  panes. 

Yet  there  are  graves,  whose  rudely-shapen  sod 
Bears  the  fresh  footprints  where  the  sexton  trod ; 
Graves  where  the  verdure  has  not  dared  to  shoot, 
Where  the  chance  wild-flower  has  not  fixed  its  root, 
Whose  slumbering  tenants,  dead  without  a  name, 
The  eternal  record  shall  at  length  proclaim 
Pure  as  the  holiest  in  the  long  array 
Of  hooded,  mitred,  or  tiaraed  clay ! 


A   RHYMED   LESSON.  217 

Come,  seek  the  air ;  some  pictures  we  may  gain 
Whose  passing  shadows  shall  not  be  in  vain ; 
Not  from  the  scenes  that  crowd  the  stranger's  soil, 
Not  from  our  own  amidst  the  stir  of  toil, 
But  when  the  Sabbath  brings  its  kind  release, 
And  Care  lies  slumbering  on  the  lap  of  Peace. 

The  air  is  hushed ;  the  street  is  holy  ground ; 
Hark !     The  sweet  bells  renew  their  welcome  sound  ; 
As  one  by  one  awakes  each  silent  tongue, 
It  tells  the  turret  whence  its  voice  is  flung.2 

The  Chapel,  last  of  sublunary  things 
That  shocks  our  echoes  with  the  name  of  Kings, 
Whose  bell,  just  glistening  from  the  font  and  forge, 
Rolled  its  proud  requiem  for  the  second  George, 
Solemn  and  swelling,  as  of  old  it  rang, 
Flings  to  the  wind  its  deep,  sonorous  clang ;  — 
The  simpler  pile,  that,  mindful  of  the  hour 
When  Howe's  artillery  shook  its  half-built  tower, 
Wears  on  its  bosom,  as  a  bride  might  do, 
The  iron  breastpin  which  the  "  Rebels  "  threw, 
Wakes  the  sharp  echoes  with  the  quivering  thrill 
Of  keen  vibrations,  tremulous  and  shrill ;  — 
Aloft,  suspended  in  the  morning's  fire, 
Crash  the  vast  cymbals  from  the  Southern  spire  ;  — 


218  URANIA  : 

The  Giant,  standing  by  the  elm-clad  green, 
His  white  lance  lifted  o'er  the  silent  scene, 
Whirling  in  air  his  brazen  goblet  round, 
Swings  from  its  brim  the  swollen  floods  of  sound ;  — 
While,  sad  with  memories  of  the  olden  time, 
The  Northern  Minstrel  pours  her  tender  chime, 
Faint,  single  tones,  that  spell  their  ancient  song, 
But  tears  still  follow  as  they  breathe  along. 

Child  of  the  soil,  whom  fortune  sends  to  range 
Where  man  and  nature,  faith  and  customs  change, 
Borne  in  thy  memory,  each  familiar  tone 
Mourns  on  the  winds  that  sigh  in  every  zone. 
When  Ceylon  sweeps  thee  with  her  perfumed  breeze 
Through  the  warm  billows  of  the  Indian  seas ; 
When, — ship  and  shadow  blended  both  in  one,  — 
Flames  o'er  thy  mast  the  equatorial  sun, 
From  sparkling  midnight  to  refulgent  noon 
Thy  canvas  swelling  with  the  still  monsoon ; 
When  through  thy  shrouds  the  wild  tornado  sings, 
And  thy  poor  seabird  folds  her  tattered  wings, 
Oft  will  delusion  o'er  thy  senses  steal, 
And  airy  echoes  ring  the  Sabbath  peal ! 
Then,  dim  with  grateful  tears,  in  long  array 
Rise  the  fair  town,  the  island-studded  bay, 


A   RHYMED   LESSON. 

Home,  with  its  smiling  board,  its  cheering  fire, 
The  half-choked  welcome  of  the  expecting  sire, 
The  mother's  kiss,  and,  still  if  aught  remain, 
Our  whispering  hearts  shall  aid  the  silent  strain. — 

Ah,  let  the  dreamer  o'er  the  taffrail  lean 
To  muse  unheeded,  and  to  weep  unseen ; 
Fear  not  the  tropic's  dews,  the  evening's  chills, 
His  heart  lies  warm  among  his  triple  hills ! 

Turned  from  her  path  by  this  deceitful  gleam, 
My  wayward  fancy  half  forgets  her  theme  ; 
See  through  the  streets  that  slumbered  in  repose 
The  living  current  of  devotion  flows  ; 
Its  varied  forms  in  one  harmonious  band, 
Age  leading  childhood  by  its  dimpled  hand, 
Want,  in  the  robe  whose  faded  edges  fall 
To  tell  of  rags  beneath  the  tartan  shawl, 
And  wealth,  in  silks  that,  fluttering  to  appear, 
Lift  the  deep  borders  of  the  proud  cashmere. 

See,  but  glance  briefly,  sorrow-worn  and  pale, 
Those  sunken  cheeks  beneath  the  widow's  veil ; 
Alone  she  wanders  where  with  him  she  trod, 
No  arm  to  stay  her,  but  she  leans  on  God. 


219 


220  URANIA  : 

While  other  doublets  deviate  here  and  there, 
What  secret  handcuff  binds  that  pretty  pair  ? 
Compactest  couple  !  pressing  side  to  side,  — 
Ah,  the  white  bonnet  that  reveals  the  bride ! 

By  the  white  neckcloth,  with  its  straitened  tie, 
The  sober  hat,  the  Sabbath-speaking  eye, 
Severe  and  smileless,  he  that  runs  may  read 
The  stern  disciple  of  Geneva's  creed ; 
Decent  and  slow,  behold  his  solemn  march ; 
Silent  he  enters  through  yon  crowded  arch. 

A  livelier  bearing  of  the  outward  man, 
The  light-hued  gloves,  the  undevout  ratan, 
Now  smartly  raised  or  half-pro fanely  twirled,  — 
A  bright,  fresh  twinkle  from  the  week-day  world,  — 
Tell  their  plain  story  ;  —  yes,  thine  eyes  behold 
A  cheerful  Christian  from  the  liberal  fold. 

Down  the  chill  street  that  curves  in  gloomiest  shade. 
What  marks  betray  yon  solitary  maid  ? 
The  cheek's  red  rose,  that  speaks  of  balmier  air ; 
The  Celtic  blackness  of  her  braided  hair ; 3 
The  gilded  missal  in  her  kerchief  tied  ; 
Poor  Nora,  exile  from  Killarney's  side  ! 

Sister  in  toil,  though  blanched  by  colder  skies, 
That  left  their  azure  in  her  downcast  eyes, 


- 

A   RHYMED    LESSON.  221 


See  pallid  Margaret,  Labor's  patient  child, 
Scarce  weaned  from  home,  the  nursling  of  the  wild 
Where  white  Katahdin  o'er  the  horizon  shines, 
And  broad  Penobscot  dashes  through  the  pines ; 
Still,  as  she  hastes,  her  careful  fingers  hold 
The  unfailing  hymn-book  in  its  cambric  fold. 
Six  days  at  drudgery's  heavy  wheel  she  stands, 
The  seventh  sweet  morning  folds  her  weary  hands  ; 
Yes,  child  of  suffering,  thou  may'st  well  be  sure 
He  who  ordained  the  Sabbath  loves  the  poor ! 

This  weekly  picture  faithful  memory  draws, 
Nor  claims  the  noisy  tribute  of  applause ; 
Faint  is  the  glow  such  barren  hopes  can  lend, 
And  frail  the  line  that  asks  no  loftier  end. 

Trust  me,  kind  listener,  I  will  yet  beguile 
Thy  saddened  features  of  the  promised  smile  ; 
This  magic  mantle  thou  must  well  divide, 
It  has  its  sable  and  its  ermine  side ; 
Yet,  ere  the  lining  of  the  robe  appears, 
Take  thou  in  silence,  what  I  give  in  tears. 

Dear  listening  soul,  this  transitory  scene 
Of  murmuring  stillness,  busily  serene ; 
This  solemn  pause,  the  breathing-space  of  man, 
The  halt  of  toil's  exhausted  caravan, 


222  URANIA  : 

Comes  sweet  with  music  to  thy  wearied  ear ; 
Kise  with  its  anthems  to  a  holier  sphere  ! 

Deal  meekly,  gently,  with  the  hopes  that  guide 
The  lowliest  brother  straying  from  thy  side  ; 
If  right,  they  bid  thee  tremble  for  thine  own, 
If  wrong,  the  verdict  is  for  God  alone ! 

What  though  the  champions  of  thy  faith  esteem 
The  sprinkled  fountain  or  baptismal  stream  ; 
Shall  jealous  passions  in  unseemly  strife 
Cross  their  dark  weapons  o'er  the  waves  of  life  ? 

Let  my  free  soul,  expanding  as  it  can, 
Leave  to  his  scheme  the  thoughful  Puritan  ; 
But  Calvin's  dogma  shall  my  lips  deride  ? 
In  that  stern  faith  my  angel  Mary  died ;  — 
Or  ask  if  mercy's  milder  creed  can  save, 
Sweet  sister,  risen  from  thy  new-made  grave  ? 

True,  the  harsh  founders  of  thy  church  reviled 
That  ancient  faith,  the  trust  of  Erin's  child ; 
Must  thou  be  raking  in  the  crumbled  past 
For  racks  and  fagots  in  her  teeth  to  cast  ? 
See  from  the  ashes  of  Helvetia's  pile 
The  whitened  skull  of  old  Servetus  smile  ! 


A   RHYMED   LESSON.  223 

Round  her  young  heart  thy  "  Romish  Upas  "  threw 

Its  firm,  deep  fibres,  strengthening-  as  she  grew ; 

Thy  sneering  voice  may  call  them  "  Popish  tricks,"  — 

Her  Latin  prayers,  her  dangling  crucifix,  — 

But  De  Profundis  blessed  her  father's  grave ; 

That  "  idol "  cross  her  dying  mother  gave  ! 

What  if  some  angel  looks  with  equal  eyes 
On  her  and  thee,  the  simple  and  the  wise, 
Writes  each  dark  fault  against  thy  brighter  creed, 
And  drops  a  tear  with  every  foolish  bead ! 

Grieve,  as  thou  must,  o'er  history's  reeking  page ; 
Blush  for  the  wrongs  that  stain  thy  happier  age ; 
Strive  with  the  wanderer  from  the  better  path, 
Bearing  thy  message  meekly,  not  in  wrath  ; 
Weep  for  the  frail  that  err,  the  weak  that  fall, 
Have  thine  own  faith,  —  but  hope  and  pray  for  all ! 

Faith  ;  Conscience  ;  Love.     A  meaner  task  remains. 
And  humbler  thoughts  must  creep  in  lowlier  strains  ; 
Shalt  thou  be  honest  ?     Ask  the  worldly  schools, 
And  all  will  tell  thee  knaves  are  busier  fools  ; 
Prudent  ?     Industrious  ?     Let  not  modern  pens 
Instruct  "  Poor  Richard's  "  fellow-citizens. 


224  URANIA  : 

Be  firm !  one  constant  element  in  luck 
Is  genuine,  solid,  old  Teutonic  pluck ; 
See  yon  tall  shaft ;  it  felt  the  earthquake's  thrill, 
Clung  to  its  base,  and  greets  the  sunrise  still. 

Stick  to  your  aim  ;  the  mongrel's  hold  will  slip, 
But  only  crowbars  loose  the  bulldog's  grip ; 
Small  as  he  looks,  the  jaw  that  never  yields 
Drags  down  the  bellowing  monarch  of  the  fields ! 

Yet  in  opinions  look  not  always  back ; 
Your  wake  is  nothing,  mind  the  coming  track ; 
Leave  what  you  've  done  for  what  you  have  to  do  ; 
Don't  be  "  consistent,"  but  be  simply  true. 

Don't  catch  the  fidgets ;  you  have  found  your  place 
Just  in  the  focus  of  a  nervous  race, 
Fretful  to  change,  and  rabid  to  discuss, 
Full  of  excitements,  always  in  a  fuss  ;  — 
Think  of  the  patriarchs ;  then  compare  as  men 
These  lean-cheeked  maniacs  of  the  tongue  and  pen  ! 
Run,  if  you  like,  but  try  to  keep  your  breath  ; 
"Work  like  a  man,  but  don't  be  worked  to  death  ; 
And  with  new  notions,  —  let  me  change  the  rule.  — 
Don't  strike  the  iron  till  it 's  slightly  cool. 


A    RHYMED   LESSON.  225 

Choose  well  your  set ;  our  feeble  nature  seeks 
The  aid  of  clubs,  the  countenance  of  cliques ; 
And  with  this  object  settle  first  of  all 
Your  weight  of  metal  and  your  size  of  ball. 
Track  not  the  steps  of  such  as  hold  you  cheap,  — 
Too  mean  to  prize,  though  good  enough  to  keep ; 
The  "real,  genuine,  no-mistake  Tom  Thumbs" 
Are  little  people  fed  on  great  men's  crumbs. 

Yet  keep  no  followers  of  that  hateful  brood 
That  basely  mingles  with  its  wholesome  food 
The  tumid  reptile,  which,  the  poet  said, 
Doth  wear  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head. 

If  the  wild  filly,  "  Progress,"  thou  would'st  ride, 
Have  young  companions  ever  at  thy  side ; 
But,  would'st  thou  stride  the  staunch  old  mare,  "  Suc 
cess," 
Go  with  thine  elders,  though  they  please  thee  less. 

Shun  such  as  lounge  through  afternoons  and  eves, 
And  on  thy  dial  write  "  Beware  of  thieves  ! " 
Felon  of  minutes,  never  taught  to  feel 
The  worth  of  treasures  which  thy  fingers  steal, 
Pick  my  left  pocket  of  its  silver  dime, 
But  spare  the  right,  —  it  holds  my  golden  time  ! 

15 


226  URANIA  : 

Does  praise  delight  thee  ?  Choose  some  ultra  side ; 
A  sure  old  recipe,  and  often  tried ; 
Be  its  apostle,  congressman,  or  hard, 
Spokesman,  or  jokesman,  only  drive  it  hard ; 
But  know  the  forfeit  which  thy  choice  ahides, 
For  on  two  wheels  the  poor  reformer  rides, 
One  black  with  epithets  the  anti  throws, 
One  white  with  flattery,  painted  by  the  pros. 

Though  books  on  MANNERS  are  not  out  of  print, 
An  honest  tongue  may  drop  a  harmless  hint. 

Stop  not,  unthinking,  every  friend  you  meet, 
To  spin  your  wordy  fabric  in  the  street ; 
While  you  are  emptying  your  colloquial  pack, 
The  fiend  Lumbago  jumps  upon  his  back. 

Nor  cloud  his  features  with  the  unwelcome  tale 
Of  how  he  looks,  if  haply  thin  and  pale  ; 
Health  is  a  subject  for  his  child,  his  wife, 
And  the  rude  office  that  insures  his  life. 

Look  in  his  face,  to  meet  thy  neighbor's  soul, 
Not  on  his  garments,  to  detect  a  hole ; 
"  How  to  observe,"  is  what  thy  pages  show, 
Pride  of  thy  sex,  Miss  Harriet  Martineaul 
O,  what  a  precious  book  the  one  would  be 
That  taught  observers  what  they  're  not  to  see ! 


A   RHYMED   LESSON.  227 

I  tell  in  verse,  —  'twere  better  done  in  prose, — 
One  curious  trick  that  everybody  knows ; 
Once  form  this  habit,  and  it 's  very  strange 
How  long-  it  sticks,  how  hard  it  is  to  change. 
Two  friendly  people,  both  disposed  to  smile, 
Who  meet,  like  others,  every  little  while, 
Instead  of  passing  with  a  pleasant  bow, 
And  "  How  d'  ye  do  ? "  or  "  How 's  your  uncle  now  ? " 
Impelled  by  feelings  in  their  nature  kind, 
But  slightly  weak,  and  somewhat  undefined, 
Rush  at  each  other,  make  a  sudden  stand, 
Begin  to  talk,  expatiate,  and  expand ; 
Each  looks  quite  radiant,  seems  extremely  struck, 
Their  meeting  so  was  such  a  piece  of  luck ; 
Each  thinks  the  other  thinks  he  's  greatly  pleased 
To  screw  the  vice  in  which  they  both  are  squeezed ; 
So  there  they  talk,  in  dust,  or  mud,  or  snow, 
Both  bored  to  death,  and  both  afraid  to  go ! 

Your  hat  once  lifted,  do  not  hang  your  fire, 
Nor,  like  slow  Ajax,  fighting  still,  retire ; 
When  your  old  castor  on  your  crown  you  clap, 
Go  off;  you  've  mounted  your  percussion  cap  ! 

Some  words  on  LANGUAGE  may  be  well  applied, 
And  take  them  kindly,  though  they  touch  your  pride ; 


228  URANIA  : 

Words  lead  to  things;  a  scale  is  more  precise, — 
Coarse  speech,  bad  grammar,  swearing,  drinking,  vice. 

Our  cold  Northeaster's  icy  fetter  clips 
The  native  freedom  of  the  Saxon  lips ; 
See  the  brown  peasant  of  the  plastic  South, 
How  all  his  passions  play  about  his  mouth  ! 
With  us,  the  feature  that  transmits  the  soul, 
A  frozen,  passive,  palsied  breathing-hole. 
The  crampy  shackles  of  the  ploughboy's  walk 
Tie  the  small  muscles  when  he  strives  to  talk ; 
Not  all  the  pumice  of  the  polished  town 
Can  smooth  this  roughness  of  the  barnyard  down ; 
Rich,  honored,  titled,  he  betrays  his  race 
By  this  one  mark,  —  he  's  awkward  in  the  face  ;  — 
Nature's  rude  impress,  long  before  he  knew 
The  sunny  street  that  holds  the  sifted  few. 

It  can't  be  helped,  though,  if  we  're  taken  young, 
We  gain  some  freedom  of  the  lips  and  tongue ; 
But  school  and  college  often  try  in  vain 
To  break  the  padlock  of  our  boyhood's  chain ; 
One  stubborn  word  will  prove  this  axiom  true  ;  — 
No  quondam  rustic  can  enunciate  view. 

A  few  brief  stanzas  may  be  well  employed 
To  speak  of  errors  we  can  all  avoid. 


A   RHYMED    LESSON. 

Learning  condemns  beyond  the  reach  of  hope 
The  careless  lips  that  speak  of  soap  for  soap ; 
Her  edict  exiles  from  her  fair  abode 
The  clownish  voice  that  utters  road  for  road ; 
Less  stern  to  him  who  calls  his  coat  a  coat, 
And  steers  his  boat,  believing  it  a  boat, 
She  pardoned  one,  our  classic  city's  boast, 
Who  said  at  Cambridge,  most  instead  of  most, 
But  knit  her  brows  arid  stamped  her  angry  foot 
To  hear  a  Teacher  call  a  root  a  root. 

Once  more  ;  speak  clearly,  if  you  speak  at  all ; 
Carve  every  word  before  you  let  it  fall ; 
Don't,  like  a  lecturer  or  dramatic  star, 
Try  over  hard  to  roll  the  British  R ; 
Do  put  your  accents  in  the  proper  spot; 
Don't,  —  let   me   beg   you,  —  don't  say  "How?"  for 

"  What  ? " 

And,  when  you  stick  on  conversation's  burs, 
Don't  strew  your  pathway  with  those  dreadful  urs. 

From  little  matters  let  us  pass  to  less, 
And  lightly  touch  the  mysteries  of  DRESS  ; 
The  outward  forms  the  inner  man  reveal, — 
We  guess  the  pulp  before  we  cut  the  peel. 


230  URANIA  : 

I  leave  the  broadcloth,  —  coats  and  all  the  rest, — 
The  dangerous  waistcoat,  called  by  cockneys  "  vest," 
The  things  named  "  pants  "  in  certain  documents, 
A  word  not  made  for  gentlemen,  but  "  gents"; 
One  single  precept  might  the  whole  condense  : 
Be  sure  your  tailor  is  a  man  of  sense ; 
But  add  a  little  care,  a  decent  pride, 
And  always  err  upon  the  sober  side. 

Three  pairs  of  boots  one  pair  of  feet  demands, 
If  polished  daily  by  the  owner's  hands  ; 
If  the  dark  menial's  visit  save  from  this, 
Have  twice  the  number,  for  he  '11  sometimes  miss. 
One  pair  for  critics  of  the  nicer  sex. 
Close  in  the  instep's  clinging  circumflex, 
Long,  narrow,  light ;  the  Gallic  boot  of  love, 
A  kind  of  cross  between  a  boot  and  glove. 
But,  not  to  tread  on  everlasting  thorns, 
And  sow  in  suffering  what  is  reaped  in  corns, 
Compact,  but  easy,  strong,  substantial,  square, 
Let  native  art  compile  the  medium  pair. 
The  third  remains,  and  let  your  tasteful  skill 
Here  show  some  relics  of  affection  still ; 
Let  no  stiff  cowhide,  reeking  from  the  tan, 
No  rough  caoutchouc,  no  deformed  brogan, 


A   RHYMED   LESSON.  231 

Disgrace  the  tapering  outline  of  your  feet, 
Though  yellow  torrents  gurgle  through  the  street ; 
But  the  patched  calfskin  arm  against  the  flood 
In  neat,  light  shoes,  impervious  to  the  mud. 

AVear  seemly  gloves ;  not  black,  nor  yet  too  light, 
And  least  of  all  the  pair  that  once  was  white ; 
Let  the  dead  party  where  you  told  your  loves 
Bury  in  peace  its  dead  bouquets  and  gloves ; 
Shave  like  the  goat,  if  so  your  fancy  bids, 
But  be  a  parent,  —  don't  neglect  your  kids. 

Have  a  good  hat ;  the  secret  of  your  looks 
Lives  with  the  beaver  in  Canadian  brooks ; 
Virtue  may  flourish  in  an  old  cravat, 
But  man  and  nature  scorn  the  shocking  hat. 
Does  beauty  slight  you  from  her  gay  abodes  ? 
Like  bright  Apollo,  you  must  take  to  Rhoades, 
Mount  the  new  castor,  —  ice  itself  will  melt ; 
Boots,  gloves  may  fail ;  the  hat  is  always  felt ! 

Be  shy  of  breast-pins;  plain,  well-ironed  white, 
With  small  pearl  buttons,  —  two  of  them  in  sight,  — 
Is  always  genuine,  while  your  gems  may  pass, 
Though  real  diamonds,  for  ignoble  ijlass ; 


232  URANIA  : 

But  spurn  those  paltry  cis-Atlantic  lies, 
That  round  his  breast  the  shabby  rustic  ties ; 
Breathe  not  the  name,  profaned  to  hallow  things 
The  indignant  laundress  blushes  when  she  brings  ! 

Our  freeborn  race,  averse  to  every  check, 
Has  tossed  the  yoke  of  Europe  from  its  neck  ; 
From  the  green  prairie  to  the  sea-girt  town, 
The  whole  wide  nation  turns  its  collars  down. 

The  stately  neck  is  manhood's  manliest  part ; 
It  takes  the  life-blood  freshest  from  the  heart ; 
With  short,  curled  ringlets  close  around  it  spread, 
How  light  and  strong  it  lifts  the  Grecian  head ! 
Thine,  fair  Erectheus  of  Minerva's  wall ;  — 
Or  thine,  young  athlete  of  the  Louvre's  hall, 
Smooth  as  the  pillar  flashing  in  the  sun 
That  filled  the  arena  where  thy  wreaths  were  won, 
Firm  as  the  band  that  clasps  the  antlered  spoil 
Strained  in  the  winding  anaconda's  coil ! 

I  spare  the  contrast ;  it  were  only  kind 
To  be  a  little,  nay,  intensely  blind  : 
Choose  for  yourself :  I  know  it  cuts  your  ear ; 
I  know  the  points  will  sometimes  interfere ; 


A   RHYMED   LESSON.  233 

I  know  that  often,  like  the  filial  John, 
Whom  sleep  surprised  with  half  his  drapery  on, 
You  show  your  features  to  the  astonished  town 
With  one  side  standing  and  the  other  down ;  — 
But,  0  my  friend  !  my  favorite  fellow-man ! 
If  Nature  made  you  on  her  modern  plan, 
Sooner  than  wander  with  your  windpipe  bare,  — 
The  fruit  of  Eden  ripening  in  the  air,  — 
With  that  lean  head-stalk,  that  protruding  chin, 
Wear  standing  collars,  were  they  made  of  tin ! 
And  have  a  neck-cloth, —  by  the  throat  of  Jove! 
Cut  from  the  funnel  of  a  rusty  stove  ! 

The  long-drawn  lesson  narrows  to  its  close, 
Chill,  slender,  slow,  the  dwindled  current  flows ; 
Tired  of  the  ripples  on  its  feeble  springs, 
Once  more  the  Muse  unfolds  her  upward  wings. 

Land  of  my  birth,  with  this  unhallowed  tongue, 
Thy  hopes,  thy  dangers,  I  perchance  had  sung ; 
But  who  shall  sing,  in  brutal  disregard 
Of  all  the  essentials  of  the  "  native  bard  "  ? 

Lake,  sea,  shore,  prairie,  forest,  mountain,  fall, 
His  eye  omnivorous  must  devour  them  all ; 


234  URANIA  : 

The  tallest  summits  and  the  broadest  tides 
His  foot  must  compass  with  its  giant  strides, 
Where  Ocean  thunders,  where  Missouri  rolls, 
And  tread  at  once  the  tropics  and  the  poles ; 
His  food  all  forms  of  earth,  fire,  water,  air, 
His  home  all  space,  his  birth-place  everywhere. 

Some  grave  compatriot,  having  seen  perhaps 
The  pictured  page  that  goes  in  Worcester's  Maps, 
And  read  in  earnest  what  was  said  in  jest, 
"  Who  drives  fat  oxen  "  —  please  to  add  the  rest,  — 
Sprung  the  odd  notion  that  the  poet's  dreams 
Grow  in  the  ratio  of  his  hills  and  streams ; 
And  hence  insisted  that  the  aforesaid  "  bard," 
Pink  of  the  future,  —  fancy's  pattern-card,  — 
The  babe  of  nature  in  the  "  giant  West," 
Must  be  of  course  her  biggest  and  her  best. 

But,  were  it  true  that  nature's  fostering  sun 
Saves  all  its  daylight  for  that  favorite  one, 
If  for  his  forehead  every  wreath  she  means, 
And  we,  poor  children,  must  not  touch  the  greens ; 
Since  rocks  and  rivers  cannot  take  the  road 
To  seek  the  elected  in  his  own  abode, 


A   RHYMED   LESSOX.  235 

Some  voice  must  answer,  for  her  precious  heir, 
One  solemn  question ;  —  Who  shall  pay  his  fare  ? 

O  when  at  length  the  expected  bard  shall  come, 
Land  of  our  pride,  to  strike  thine  echoes  dumb, 
(And  many  a  voice  exclaims  in  prose  and  rhyme 
It 's  getting  late,  and  he  's  behind  his  time,) 
When  all  thy  mountains  clap  their  hands  in  joy, 
And  all  thy  cataracts  thunder  "  That 's  the  boy,"  — 
Say  if  with  him  the  reign  of  song  shall  end, 
And  Heaven  declare  its  final  dividend  ? 

Be  calm,  dear  brother !  whose  impassioned  strain 
Comes  from  an  alley  watered  by  a  drain ; 
The  little  Mincio,  dribbling  to  the  Po, 
Beats  all  the  epics  of  the  Hoang  Ho  ; 
If  loved  in  earnest  by  the  tuneful  maid, 
Don't  mind  their  nonsense,  —  never  be  afraid ! 

The  nurse  of  poets  feeds  her  winged  brood 
By  common  firesides,  on  familiar  food  ; 
In  a  low  hamlet,  by  a  narrow  stream, 
Where  bovine  rustics  used  to  doze  and  dream, 
She  filled  young  William's  fiery  fancy  full, 
While  old  John  Shakspeare  talked  of  beeves  and  wool ! 


236  URANIA  : 

No  Alpine  needle,  with  its  climbing  spire, 
Brings  down  for  mortals  the  Promethean  fire, 
If  careless  nature  have  forgot  to  frame 
An  altar  worthy  of  the  sacred  flame. 

Unblest  by  any  save  the  goat-herd's  lines, 
Mont  Blanc  rose  soaring  through  his  "  sea  of  pines  " ; 
In  vain  the  Arve  and  Arveiron  dash, 
No  hymn  salutes  them  but  the  Ranz  des  Vaches, 
Till  lazy  Coleridge,  by  the  morning's  light, 
Gazed  for  a  moment  on  the  fields  of  white, 
And  lo,  the  glaciers  found  at  length  a  tongue, 
Mont  Blanc  was  vocal,  and  Chamouni  sung ! 

Children  of  wealth  or  want,  to  each  is  given 
One  spot  of  green,  and  all  the  blue  of  heaven ! 
Enough,  if  these  their  outward  shows  impart ; 
The  rest  is  thine,  —  the  scenery  of  the  heart. 

If  passion's  hectic  in  thy  stanzas  glow, 
Thy  heart's  best  life-blood  ebbing  as  they  flow, 
If  with  thy  verse  thy  strength  and  bloom  distil, 
Drained  by  the  pulses  of  the  fevered  thrill ; 
If  sound's  sweet  effluence  polarize  thy  brain, 
And  thoughts  turn  crystals  in  thy  fluid  strain,  — 
Nor  rolling  ocean,  nor  the  prairie's  bloom, 
Nor  streaming  cliffs,  nor  rayless  cavern's  gloom, 


A   RHYMED   LESSON.  237 

Need'st  thou,  young  poet,  to  inform  thy  line ; 
Thy  own  broad  signet  stamps  thy  song  divine ! 

Let  others  gaze  where  silvery  streams  are  rolled, 
And  ehase  the  rainbow  for  its  cup  of  gold ; 
To  thee  all  landscapes  wear  a  heavenly  dye, 
Changed  in  the  glance  of  thy  prismatic  eye ; 
Nature  evoked  thee  in  sublimer  throes, 
For  thee  her  inmost  Arethusa  flows,  — 
The  mighty  mother's  living  depths  are  stirred,  — 
Thou  art  the  starred  Osiris  of  the  herd ! 

A  few  brief  lines ;  they  touch  on  solemn  chords, 
And  hearts  may  leap  to  hear  their  honest  words ; 
Yet,  ere  the  jarring  bugle -blast  is  blown, 
The  softer  lyre  shall  breathe  its  soothing  tone. 

New  England  !  proudly  may  thy  children  claim 
Their  honored  birthright  by  its  humblest  name ! 
Cold  are  thy  skies,  but,  ever  fresh  and  clear, 
No  rank  malaria  stains  thine  atmosphere ; 
No  fungous  weeds  invade  thy  scanty  soil, 
Scarred  by  the  ploughshares  of  unslumbering  toil. 
Long  may  the  doctrines  by  thy  sages  taught, 
Raised  from  the  quarries  where  their  sires  have  wrought, 


238  URANIA  : 

Be  like  the  granite  of  thy  rock-ribbed  land,  — 
As  slow  to  rear,  as  obdurate  to  stand ; 
And  as  the  ice,  that  leaves  thy  crystal  mine, 
Chills  the  fierce  alcohol  in  the  Creole's  wine, 
So  may  the  doctrines  of  thy  sober  school 
Keep  the  hot  theories  of  thy  neighbours  cool ! 

If  ever,  trampling  on  her  ancient  path, 
Cankered  by  treachery,  or  inflamed  by  wrath, 
With  smooth  "  Resolves,"  or  with  discordant  cries, 
The  mad  Briareus  of  disunion  rise, 
Chiefs  of  New  England !  by  your  sires'  renown, 
Dash  the  red  torches  of  the  rebel  down  ! 
Flood  his  black  hearth-stone  till  its  flames  expire, 
Though  your  old  Sachem  fanned  his  council-fire  ! 

But  if  at  last,  —  her  fading  cycle  run,  — 
The  tongue  must  forfeit  what  the  arm  has  won, 
Then  rise,  wild  Ocean  !  roll  thy  surging  shock 
Full  on  old  Plymouth's  desecrated  rock  ! 
Scale  the  proud  shaft  degenerate  hands  have  hewn, 
Where  bleeding  Valor  stained  the  flowers  of  June  ! 
Sweep  in  one  tide  her  spires  and  turrets  down, 
And  howl  her  dirge  above  Monadnock's  crown  ! 


A   RHYMED   LESSON.  239 

List  not  the  tale ;  the  Pilgrim's  hallowed  shore, 
Though  strewn  with  weeds,  is  granite  at  the  core ; 
O  rather  trust  that  He  who  made  her  free 
Will  keep  her  true,  as  long  as  faith  shall  be  ! 

Farewell !  yet  lingering  through  the  destined  hour, 
Leave,  sweet  Enchantress,  one  memorial  flower ! 

An  Angel,  floating  o'er  the  waste  of  snow 
That  clad  our  western  desert,  long  ago, 
(The  same  fair  spirit,  who,  unseen  by  day, 
Shone  as  a  star  along  the  Mayflower's  way,) 
Sent,  the  first  herald  of  the  Heavenly  plan, 
To  choose  on  earth  a  resting-place  for  man, — 
Tired  with  his  flight  along  the  unvaried  field, 
Turned  to  soar  upwards,  when  his  glance  revealed 
A  calm,  bright  bay,  enclosed  in  rocky  bounds, 
And  at  its  entrance  stood  three  sister  mounds. 

The  Angel  spake :  "  This  threefold  hill  shall  be* 
The  home  of  Arts,  the  nurse  of  Liberty ! 
One  stately  summit  from  its  shaft  shall  pour 
Its  deep-red  blaze,  along  the  darkened  shore  ; 
Emblem  of  thoughts,  that,  kindling  far  and  wide, 
In  danger's  night  shall  be  a  nation's  guide. 


240  URANIA. 

One  swelling  crest  the  citadel  shall  crown, 
Its  slanted  bastions  black  with  battle's  frown, 
And  bid  the  sons  that  tread  its  scowling  heights 
Bare  their  strong  arms  for  man  and  all  his  rights  ! 
One  silent  steep  along  the  northern  wave 
Shall  hold  the  patriarch's  and  the  hero's  grave  ; 
When  fades  the  torch,  when  o'er  the  peaceful  scene 
The  embattled  fortress  smiles  in  living  green, 
The  cross  of  Faith,  the  anchor  staff  of  Hope, 
Shall  stand  eternal  on  its  grassy  slope  ; 
There  through  all  time  shall  faithful  Memory  tell : 
"  Here  Virtue  toiled,  and  Patriot  Valor  fell ; 
Thy  free,  prou4  fathers  slumber  at  thy  side, 
Live  as  they  lived,  or  perish  as  they  died !  " 


NOTES. 


THIS    POEM   'WAS    DELIVERED    BEFORE   THE   MERCANTILE   LIBRARY 
ASSOCIATION,    OCTOBER    14,   Ib46. 


Note  1.     Page  197. 
Ol'i/  rreo  (prx/cuv  ytveiiy  roii^t  xai  uvfyajv.  —  Iliad,  VI.,  146. 

Wesley  quotes  this  line  in  his  account  of  his  early  doubts  and 
perplexities.     See  Soutftcy's  Life  of  Wesley,  Vol.  II.,  p.  185. 

Note  2.     Page  203. 

The  churches  referred  to  in  the  lines  which  follow  are 

1.  "  King's  Chapel,"  the  foundation  of  which  was  laid  by 
Governor  Shirley  in  1749. 

2.  The   church    in   Brattle  Square,  consecrated   in   1773. 
The  completion  of  this  edifice,  the  design  of  which  included  a 
spire,  was  prevented  by  the  troubles  of  the  Revolution,  and 
its  plain  square  tower  presents  nothing  more  attractive  than  a 
massive  simplicity.     In  the  front  of  this  towTer  is  still  seen,  half 
imbedded  in  the  brick-work,  a  cannon-ball,  which  was  thrown 
from  the  American   fortifications   at  Cambridge,   during   the 
bombardment  of  the  city,  then  occupied  by  the  British  troops. 

3.  The  "Old  South,"  first  occupied  for  public  worship  in 
1730. 

4.  Park  Street  Church,  built  in  1809,  the  tall,  white  stee 
ple  of  which  is  the  most  conspicuous  of  all  the  Boston  spires. 

5.  Christ  Church,  opened  for  public  worship  in  1723,  and 
containing  a  set  of  eight  bells,  the  only  chime  in  Boston. 

Note  3.     Page  206. 

For  the   propriety   of  the   term   "  Celtic  blackness,"    see 
Lawrence's  Lectures,  (Salem,  1828,)  pp.  452,  453.     But  the 
ancient  Celts  appear  to  have  been  a  xanthous,  or  fair-haired 
16 


242 


NOTES. 


race.     See  Prichard's  Nat.  Hist,  of  Man,  (London,  1843,) 
pp.  183,  193,  196. 

Note  4.     Page  225. 

The  name  first  given  by  the  English  to  Boston  was  TRI- 
MOUNTAIN.  The  three  hills  upon  and  around  which  the  city 
is  built  are  Beacon  Hill,  Fort  Hill,  and  Copp's  Hill. 

In  the  early  records  of  the  Colony,  it  is  mentioned,  under 
date  of  May  6th,  1635,  that  "  A  BEACON  is  to  be  set  on  the 
Sentry  hill,  at  Boston,  to  give  notice  to  the  country  of  any 
danger ;  to  be  guarded  by  one  man  stationed  near,  and  fired  as 
occasion  may  be."  The  last  Beacon  was  blown  down  in  1789. 

The  eastern  side  of  Fort  Hill  was  formerly  "  a  ragged  cliff, 
that  seemed  placed  by  nature  in  front  of  the  entrance  to  the 
harbor  for  the  purposes  of  defence,  to  which  it  was  very  soon 
applied,  and  from  which  it  obtained  its  present  name."  Its 
summit  is  now  a  beautiful  green  enclosure. 

Copp's  Hill  was  used  as  a  burial-ground  from  a  very  early 
period.  The  part  of  it  employed  for  this  purpose  slopes 
towards  the  water  upon  the  northern  side.  From  its  many 
interesting  records  of  the  dead  I  select  the  following,  which 
may  serve  to  show  what  kind  of  dust  it  holds. 

"Here  lies  buried  in  a 

Stone  Grave  10  feet  deep, 

Cap1  DANIEL  MALCOLM  Merch' 

-who  departed  this  Life 

October  23d,  1769, 

Aged  44  years, 

a  true  son  of  Liberty, 

a  Friend  to  the  Publick, 

an  Enemy  to  oppression, 

and  one  of  the  foremost 

in  opposing  the  Revenue  Acts 

on  America." 

The  gravestone  from  which  I  copied  this  inscription  is 
bruised  and  splintered  by  the  bullets  of  the  British  soldiers. 


THE    PILGRIM'S    VISION. 


IN  the  hour  of  twilight  shadows 

The  Puritan  looked  out ; 
He  thought  of  the  "  bloudy  Salvages  " 

That  lurked  all  round  about, 
Of  Wituwamet's  pictured  knife 

And  Pecksuot's  whooping  shout ; 
For  the  baby's  limbs  were  feeble, 

Though  his  father's  arms  were  stout. 

His  home  was  a  freezing  cabin 

Too  bare  for  the  hungry  rat, 
Its  roof  was  thatched  with  ragged  grass 

And  bald  enough  of  that ; 
The  hole  that  served  for  casement 

Was  glazed  with  an  ancient  hat ; 
And  the  ice  was  gently  thawing 

From  the  log  whereon  he  sat. 


244  THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION. 

Along  the  dreary  landscape 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro, 
The  trees  all  clad  in  icicles, 

The  streams  that  did  not  flow; 
A  sudden  thought  flashed  o'er  him,- 

A  dream  of  long  ago, — 
He  smote  his  leathern  jerkin 

And  murmured  "  Even  so ! " 

"  Come  hither,  God-be-Glorified, 

And  sit  upon  my  knee, 
Behold  the  dream  unfolding, 

Whereof  I  spake  to  thee 
By  the  winter's  hearth  in  Leyden 

And  on  the  stormy  sea; 
True  is  the  dream's  beginning, — 

So  may  its  ending  be  ! 

"  I  saw  in  the  naked  forest 

Our  scattered  remnant  cast, 
A  screen  of  shivering  branches 

Between  them  and  the  blast ; 
The  snow  was  falling  round  them, 

The  dying  fell  as  fast ; 
I  looked  to  see  them  perish, 

When  lo,  the  vision  passed. 


THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION.  245 

"  Again  mine  eyes  were  opened;  — 

The  feeble  had  waxed  strong, 
The  babes  had  grown  to  sturdy  men, 

The  remnant  was  a  throng  ; 
By  shadowed  lake  and  winding  stream 

And  all  the  shores  along, 
The  howling  demons  quaked  to  hear 

The  Christian's  godly  song. 

"  They  slept,— the  village  fathers,— 

By  river,  lake  and  shore, 
When  far  adown  the  steep  of  Time 

The  vision  rose  once  more ; 
I  saw  along  the  winter  snow 

A  spectral  column  pour, 
And  high  above  their  broken  ranks 

A  tattered  flag  they  bore. 

"  Their  Leader  rode  before  them, 

Of  bearing  calm  and  high, 
The  light  of  Heaven's  own  kindling 

Throned  in  his  awful  eye  ; 
These  were  a  Nation's  champions 

Her  dread  appeal  to  try ; 
God  for  the  right !  I  faltered, 

And  lo,  the  train  passed  by. 


246  THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION. 

"Once  more; — the  strife  is  ended, 

The  solemn  issue  tried, 
The  Lord  of  Hosts,  his  mighty  arm 

Has  helped  our  Israel's  side ; 
Gray  stone  and  grassy  hillock 

Tell  where  our  martyrs  died, 
But  peaceful  smiles  the  harvest. 

And  stainless  flows  the  tide. 

"A  crash, —  as  when  some  swollen  cloud 

Cracks  o'er  the  tangled  trees  ! 
With  side  to  side,  and  spar  to  spar, 

Whose  smoking  decks  are  these  ? 
I  know  Saint  George's  blood-red  cross, 

Thou  Mistress  of  the  Seas, — 
But  what  is  she,  whose  streaming  bars 

Roll  out  before  the  breeze  ? 

"  Ah,  well  her  iron  ribs  are  knit, 

Whose  thunders  strive  to  quell 
The  bellowing  throats,  the  blazing  lips, 

That  pealed  the  Armada's  knell ! 
The  mist  was  cleared, — a  wreath  of  stars 

Rose  o'er  the  crimsoned  swell, 
And,  wavering  from  its  haughty  peak, 

The  cross  of  England  fell ! 


THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION.  247 

"  0  trembling  Faith  !  though  dark  the  morn, 

A  heavenly  torch  is  thine ; 
While  feebler  races  melt  away, 

And  paler  orbs  decline, 
Still  shall  the  fiery  pillar's  ray 

Along  thy  pathway  shine, 
To  light  the  chosen  tribe  that  sought 

This  Western  Palestine ! 

"  I  see  the  living  tide  roll  on; 

It  crowns  with  flaming  towers 
The  icy  capes  of  Labrador, 

The  Spaniard's  '  land  of  flowers  '! 
It  streams  beyond  the  splintered  ridge 

That  parts  the  Northern  showers  ; 
From  eastern  rock  to  sunset  wave 

The  Continent  is  ours  !  " 

He  ceased,  — the  grim  old  Puritan,— 

Then  softly  bent  to  cheer 
The  pilgrim-child,  whose  wasting  face 

Was  meekly  turned  to  hear ; 
And  drew  his  toil-worn  sleeve  across, 

To  brush  the  manly  tear 
From  cheeks  that  never  changed  in  woe, 

And  never  blanched  in  fear. 


248  THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION. 

The  weary  pilgrim  slumbers, 

His  resting-place  unknown ; 
His  hands  were  crossed,  his  lids  were  closed, 

The  dust  was  o'er  him  strown ; 
The  drifting  soil,  the  mouldering  leaf, 

Along  the  sod  were  blown ; 
His  mound  has  melted  into  earth, 

His  memory  lives  alone. 

So  let  it  live  unfading, 

The  memory  of  the  dead, 
Long  as  the  pale  anemone 

Springs  where  their  tears  were  shed, 
Or,  raining  in  the  summer's  wind 

In  flakes  of  burning  red, 
The  wild  rose  sprinkles  with  its  leaves 

The  turf  where  once  they  bled ! 

Yea,  when  the  frowning  bulwarks 

That  guard  this  holy  strand 
Have  sunk  beneath  the  trampling  surge 

In  beds  of  sparkling  sand, 
While  in  the  waste  of  ocean 

One  hoary  rock  shall  stand, 
Be  this  its  latest  legend, — 

HERE  WAS  THE  PILGRIM'S  LAND  ! 


A    MODEST    REQUEST. 

COMPLIED    WITH    AFTER    THE    DINNER    AT   PRESIDENT 

EVERETT'S  INAUGURATION. 


SCENE.  —  a  back  parlour  in  a  certain  square, 
Or  court,  or  lane, —  in  short  no  matter  where; 
Time,  —  early  morning-,  dear  to  simple  souls 
Who  love  its  sunshine,  and  its  fresh-baked  rolls ; 
Persons,  —  take  pity  on  this  telltale  blush, 
That, like  the  ^Ethiop, whispers  "Hush,  0  hush  ! 

Delightful  scene  !  where  smiling  comfort  broods, 
Nor  business  frets,  nor  anxious  care  intrudes ; 
O  si  sic  onmia !  were  it  ever  so  ! 
But  what  is  stable  in  this  world  below ! 
Medio  efo?ite,  —  Virtue  has  her  faults, — 
The  clearest  fountains  taste  of  Epsom  salts ; 
We  snatch  the  cup  and  lift  to  drain  it  dry,— 
Its  central  dimple  holds  a  drowning  fly ! 


250  A   MODEST   REQUEST. 

Strong  is  the  pine  by  Maine's  ambrosial  streams, 
But  stronger  augers  pierce  its  thickest  beams ; 
No  iron  gate,  no  spiked  and  pannelled  door, 
Can  keep  out  death,  the  postman,  or  the  bore;  — 

0  for  a  world  where  peace  and  silence  reign, 
And  blunted  dulness  terebrates  in  vain ! 

—  The  door  bell  jingles, —  enter  Richard  Fox, 
And  takes  this  letter  from  his  leathern  box. 

"  Dear  Sir, 

In  writing  on  a  former  day, 
One  little  matter  I  forgot  to  say; 

1  now  inform  you  in  a  single  line, 

On  Thursday  next  our  purpose  is  to  dine. 
The  act  of  feeding,  as  you  understand, 
Is  but  a  fraction  of  the  work  in  hand ; 
Its  nobler  half  is  that  ethereal  meat 
The  papers  call  '  the  intellectual  treat '; 
Songs,  speeches,  toasts,  around  the  festive  board, 
Drowned  in  the  juice  the  College  pumps  afford; 
For  only  water  flanks  our  knives  and  forks, 
So,  sink  or  float,  we  swim  without  the  corks. 
Yours  is  the  art,  by  native  genius  taught, 
To  clothe  in  eloquence  the  naked  thought; 


A   MODEST   REQUEST.  251 

Yours  is  the  skill  its  music  to  prolong 
Through  the  sweet  effluence  of  mellifluous  song; 
Yours  the  quaint  trick  to  cram  the  pithy  line 
That  cracks  so  crisply  over  bubbling  wine  ; 
And  since  success  your  various  gifts  attends, 
We, —  that  is  I  and  all  your  numerous  friends, — 
Expect  from  you, —  your  single  self  a  host, — 
A  speech,  a  song,  excuse  me,  and  a  toast ; 
Nay,  not  to  haggle  on  so  small  a  claim. 
A  few  of  each,  or  several  of  the  same. 

(Signed)  Yours,  most  truly,  — " 

No  !  my  sight  must  fail, — 
If  that  ain't  Judas  on  the  largest  scale ! 


Well,  this  is  modest; — nothing  else  than  that  ? 
My  coat  ?  my  boots  ?  my  pantaloons  ?  my  hat  ? 
My  stick  ?  my  gloves  ?  as  well  as  all  my  wits, 
Learning  and  linen,  —  everything  that  fits  ! 

Jack,  said  my  lady,  is  it  grog  you  '11  try, 

Or  punch,  or  toddy,  if  perhaps  you  're  dry  ? 

Ah,  said  the  sailor,  though  I  can't  refuse, 

You  know,  my  lady,  't  ain  't  for  me  to  choose ;  — 


252  A   MODEST   REQUEST. 

I  '11  take  the  grog  to  finish  off  my  lunch, 
And  drink  the  toddy  while  you  mix  the  punch. 


THE  SPEECH.       (The  speaker,  rising  to  be  seen, 

Looks  very  red,  because  so  very  green.) 

I  rise  —  I  rise  —  with  unaffected  fear, 

(Louder!— speak  louder! — who  the  deuce  can  hear?) 

I  rise  —  I  said  —  with  undisguised  dismay  — 

—  Such  are  my  feelings  as  I  rise,  I  say  ! 

Quite  unprepared  to  face  this  learned  throng, 

Already  gorged  with  eloquence  and  song; 

Around  my  view  are  ranged  on  either  hand 

The  genius,  wisdom,  virtue  of  the  land ; 

"  Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed  " 

Close  at  my  elbow  stir  their  lemonade ; 

Would  you  like  Homer  learn  to  write  and  speak, 

That  bench  is  groaning  with  its  weight  of  Greek; 

Behold  the  naturalist  that  in  his  teens 

Found  six  new  species  in  a  dish  of  greens ; 

And  lo,  the  master  in  a  statelier  walk, 

Whose  annual  ciphering  takes  a  ton  of  chalk; 

And  there  the  linguist,  that  by  common  roots 

Through  all  their  nurseries  tracks  old  Noah's  shoots, — 


A   MODEST   REQUEST.  253 

How  Shem's  proud  children  reared  the  Assyrian  piles, 
While  Ham's  were   scattered   through   the    Sandwich 
Isles ! 


—  Fired  at  the  thought  of  all  the  present  shows, 
My  kindling  fancy  down  the  future  flows  ; 
I  see  the  glory  of  the  coming  days 
O'er  Time's  horizon  shoot  its  streaming  rays; 
Near  and  more  near  the  radiant  morning  draws 
In  living  lustre  (rapturous  applause) ; 
From  east  to  west  the  blazing  heralds  run, 
Loosed  from  the  chariot  of  the  ascending  sun, 
Through  the  long  vista  of  uncounted  years 
In  cloudless  splendor  (three  tremendous  cheers). 
My  eye  prophetic,  as  the  depths  unfold, 
Sees  a  new  advent  of  the  age  of  gold ; 
"While  o'er  the  scene  new  generations  press, 
New  heroes  rise  the  coming  time  to  bless, — 
Not  such  as  Homer's,  who,  we  read  in  Pope, 
Dined  without  forks  and  never  heard  of  soap,  — 
Not  such  as  May  to  Marlborough  Chapel  brings, 
Lean,  hungry,  savage,  anti-e  very  things, 
Copies  of  Luther  in  the  pasteboard  style, — 
But  genuine  articles, —  the  true  Carlyle  ; 


254  A   MODEST   REQUEST. 

While  far  on  high  the  blazing  orb  shall  shed 
Its  central  light  on  Harvard's  holy  head, 
And  Learning's  ensigns  ever  float  unfurled 
Here  in  the  focus  of  the  new-born  world  ! 

The  speaker  stops,  and,  trampling  down  the  pause, 
Roars  through  the  hall  the  thunder  of  applause, 
One  stormy  gust  of  long  suspended  Ahs  ! 
One  whirlwind  chaos  of  insane  hurrahs  ! 


THE  SONG.     But  this  demands  a  briefer  line,— 
A  shorter  muse,  and  not  the  old  long  Nine;  — 
Long  metre  answers  for  a  common  song, 
Though  common  metre  does  not  answer  long. 

She  came  beneath  the  forest  dome 

To  seek  its  peaceful  shade, 
An  exile  from  her  ancient  home, — 

A  poor  forsaken  maid  ; 
No  banner,  flaunting  high  above, 

No  blazoned  cross,  she  bore ; 
One  holy  book  of  light  and  love 

Was  all  her  worldly  store. 


A   MODEST   REQUEST.  255 

The  dark  brown  shadows  passed  away, 

And  wider  spread  the  green, 
And, where  the  savage  used  to  stray, 

The  rising  mart  was  seen ; 
So, when  the  laden  winds  had  brought 

Their  showers  of  golden  rain, 
Her  lap  some  precious  gleanings  caught, 

Like  Ruth's  amid  the  grain. 

But  wrath  soon  gathered  uncontrolled 

Among  the  baser  churls, 
To  see  her  ancles  red  with  gold, 

Her  forehead  white  with  pearls  ; 
"  Who  gave  to  thee  the  glittering  bands 

That  lace  thine  azure  veins  ? 
Who  bade  thee  lift  those  snow-white  hands 

We  bound  in  gilded  chains  ?  " 

These  are  the  gems  my  children  gave, 

The  stately  dame  replied  ; 
The  wise,  the  gentle,  and  the  brave, 

I  nurtured  at  my  side  ; 
If  envy  still  your  bosom  stings, 

Take  back  their  rims  of  gold ; 
My  sons  will  melt  their  wedding  rings, 

And  give  a  hundred  fold  ! 


256  A   MODEST   REQUEST. 

THE  TOAST.  —  0  tell  me,  ye  who  thoughtless  ask 

Exhausted  nature  for  a  threefold  task, 

In  wit  or  pathos  if  one  share  remains, 

A  safe  investment  for  an  ounce  of  brains  ? 

Hard  is  the  job  to  launch  the  desperate  pun, 

A  pun-job  dangerous  as  the  Indian  one. 

Turned  by  the  current  of  some  stronger  wit 

Back  from  the  object  that  you  mean  to  hit, 

Like  the  strange  missile  which  the  Australian  throws, 

Your  verbal  boomerang  slaps  you  on  the  nose. 

One  vague  inflection  spoils  the  whole  with  doubt, 

One  trivial  letter  ruins  all,  left  out ; 

A  knot  can  choke  a  felon  into  clay, 

A  not  will  save  him,  spelt  without  the  k ; 

The  smallest  word  has  some  unguarded  spot, 

And  danger  lurks  in  i  without  a  dot. 

Thus  great  Achilles,  who  had  shown  his  zeal 
In  healing  wounds,  died  of  a  wounded  heel ; 
Unhappy  chief,  who,  when  in  childhood  doused, 
Had  saved  his  bacon,  had  his  feet  been  soused ! 
Accursed  heel  that  killed  a  hero  stout ! 
O,had  your  mother  known  that  you  were  out, 
Death  had  not  entered  at  the  trifling  part 
That  still  defies  the  small  chirurgeon's  art 


A   MODEST   REQUEST.  257 

With  corns  and  bunions, — not  the  glorious  John 
Who  wrote  the  book  we  all  have  pondered  on, — 
But  other  bunions,  bound  in  fleecy  hose, 
To  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  unrelenting  foes ! 


A  health,  unmingled  with  the  reveller's  wine, 
To  him  whose  title  is  indeed  divine ; 
Truth's  sleepless  watchman  on  her  midnight  tower, 
Whose  lamp  burns  brightest  when  the  tempests  lower. 
O  who  can  tell  with  what  a  leaden  flight 
Drag  the  long  watches  of  his  weary  night ; 
While  at  his  feet  the  hoarse  and  blinding  gale 
Strews  the  torn  wreck  and  bursts  the  fragile  sail, 
When  stars  have  faded,  when  the  wave  is  dark, 
When  rocks  and  sands  embrace  the  foundering  bark, 
And  still  he  pleads  with  unavailing  cry, 
Behold  the  light,  0  wanderer,  look  or  die ! 

A  health,  fair  Themis !  Would  the  enchanted  vine 
Wreathed  its  green  tendrils  round  this  cup  of  thine  ; 
If  Learning's  radiance  fill  thy  modern  court, 
Its  glorious  sunshine  streams  through  Blackstone's  port ! 

17 


253  .A "MODEST   REQUEST. 

Lawyers  are  thirsty,  and  their  clients  too, 

Witness  at  least,  if  memory  serve  me  true, 

Those  old  tribunals,  famed  for  dusty  suits, 

"Where  men  sought  justice  ere  they  brushed  their  boots ;- 

And  what  can  match,  to  solve  a  learned  doubt, 

The  warmth  within  that  comes  from  "  cold  without"  ? 


Health  to  the  art  whose  glory  is  to  give 
The  crowning  boon  that  makes  it  life  to  live. 
Ask  not  her  home;— the  rock  where  nature  flings 
Her  arctic  lichen,  last  of  living  things, 
The  gardens,  fragrant  with  the  orient's  balm, 
From  the  low  jasmine  to  the  star-like  palm, 
Hail  her  as  mistress  o'er  the  distant  waves, 
And  yield  their  tribute  to  her  wandering  slaves. 
Wherever,  moistening  the  ungrateful  soil, 
The  tear  of  suffering  tracks  the  path  of  toil, 
There,  in  the  anguish  of  his  fevered  hours, 
Her  gracious  finger  points  to  healing  flowers ; 
Where  the  lost  felon  steals  away  to  die, 
Her  soft  hand  waves  before  his  closing  eye ; 
Where  hunted  misery  finds  his  darkest  lair, 
The  midnight  taper  shows  her  kneeling  there ! 


UKI  •• 


A   MODEST   REQU 


VIRTUE,  —  the  guide  that  men  and  nationso 
And  LAW,  —  the  bulwark  that  protects  her  throne  ; 
And  HEALTH,—  to  all  its  happiest  charm  that  lends  ; 
These  and  their  servants,  man's  untiring  friends  ; 
Pour  the  bright  lymph  that  Heaven  itself  lets  fall,— 
In  one  fair  bumper  let  us  toast  them  all  ! 


NUX   POSTCCENATICA. 


I  WAS  sitting  with  my  microscope,  upon  my  parlour  rug, 

With  a  very  heavy  quarto  and  a  very  lively  bug ; 

The  true  bug  had  been  organized  with  only  two  anten 
nae, 

But  the  humbug  in  the  copperplate  would  have  them 
twice  as  many. 

And  I  thought,  like  Dr.  Faustus,  of  the  emptiness  of 

art, 
How  we  take  a  fragment  for  the  whole,  and  call  the 

whole  a  part, 
When  I  heard  a  heavy  footstep  that  was  loud  enough 

for  two, 
And  a  man  of  forty  entered,  exclaiming, —  "  How  d  'ye 

do?" 


NUX   POSTCCENATICA.  261 

He  was  not  a  ghost,  my  visitor,  but  solid  flesh  and 

bone ; 
He  wore   a   Palo   Alto   hat,   his  weight  was   twenty 

stone ; 
(It 's  odd  how  hats  expand  their  brims  as   riper   years 

invade, 
As  if  when  life  had  reached  its  noon,  it  wanted  them 

for  shade !) 

I  lost  my  focus,  —  dropped  my  book,  —  the  bug,  who 

was  a  flea, 
At   once   exploded,   and    commenced    experiments    on 

me. 

They  have  a  certain  heartiness  that  frequently  appals,  — 
Those  mediaeval  gentlemen  in  semilunar  smalls  ! 

"My    boy,"   he    said  —  (colloquial    ways,  —  the   vast, 

broad-hatted  man,) 
"Come  dine  with  us  on  Thursday  next, —  you  must, 

you  know  you  can ; 
We  're  going  to  have  a  roaring  time,  with  lots  of  fun 

and  noise, 
Distinguished  guests,  et  cetera,  the  JUDGE,  and  all  the 

boys." 


262  NUX   POSTCCENATICA. 

Not   so, —  I  said,  —  my  temporal  bones   are   showing 

pretty  clear 
It's  time  to  stop, — just  look  and  see  that  hair  above 

this  ear ; 
My  golden  days  are  more  than  spent, — and,  what  is 

very  strange, 
If    these   are   real   silver  hairs,   I  'm   getting  lots   of 

change. 

Besides  —  my  prospects  —  don't  you  know  that  people 

won't  employ 
A  man  that  wrongs  his  manliness  by  laughing  like  a 

boy? 

And  suspect  the  azure  blossom  that  unfolds  upon  a  shoot, 
As  if  wisdom's  old  potato  could  not  flourish  at  its  root ! 

It  's  a  very  fine  reflection,  when  you  're  etching  out  a 

smile 
On  a  copper  plate  of  faces  that  would  stretch  at  least  a 

mile, 
That, what  with  sneers  from  enemies,  and  cheapening 

shrugs  of  friends, 
It  will  cost  you  all  the  earnings  that  a  month  of  labor 

lends ! 


NtJX   POSTCCENATICA.  263 

It 's  a  vastly  pleasing  prospect,  when  you  're  screwing 

out  a  laugh, 
That  your  very  next  year's  income  is  diminished  by  a 

half, 

And  a  little  boy  trips  barefoot  that  Pegasus  may  go, 
And  the  baby's  milk  is  watered  that  your  Helicon  may 

flow! 


No;— the  joke  has  been  a  good  one,  — but  I  'm  getting 

fond  of  quiet, 

And  I  don't  like  deviations  from  my  customary  diet ; 
So  I  think  I  will  not  go  with  you  to  hear  the  toasts  and 

speeches, 
But  stick  to  old  Montgomery  Place,  and  have  some  pig 

and  peaches. 


The  fat  man  answered :  —  Shut  your  mouth,  and  hear 

the  genuine  creed ; 

The  true  ess'entials  of  a  feast  are  only  fun  and  feed ; 
The  force  that  wheels  the  planets  round  delights  in 

spinning  tops, 
And  that  young  earthquake  t'  other  day  was  great  at 

shaking  props. 


264  NUX   POSTCCENATICA. 

I  tell  you  what,  philosopher,  if  all  the  longest  heads 
That  ever  knocked  their  sinciputs  in  stretching  on  their 

beds 
Were  round  one  great  mahogany,  I'd  beat  those  fine 

old  folks 
With  twenty  dishes,  twenty  fools,  and   twenty  clever 

jokes ! 


Why,  if  Columbus  should  be  there,  the  company  would 

beg 

He  'd  show  that  little  trick  of  his  of  balancing  the  egg ! 
Milton   to    Stilton   would    give   in,   and    Solomon   to 

Salmon, 
And    Roger    Bacon    be   a   bore,   and    Francis  Bacon 

gammon ! 


And  as  for  all  the  "  patronage  "  of  all  the  clowns  and 

boors 
That  squint  their  little  narrow  eyes  at  a*ny  freak  of 

yours, 
Do  leave  them  to  your  prosier  friends, —  such  fellows 

ought  to  die 
When  rhubarb  is  so  very  scarce  and  ipecac  so  high ! 


NUX   POSTCCENATICA.  265 

And    so   I   come, —  like   Lochinvar,   to   tread  a  single 

measure, 
To   purchase  with  a  loaf  of  bread   a   sugar-plum   of 

pleasure, 

To  enter  for  the  cup  of  glass  that 's  run  for  after  dinner, 
Which  yields  a  single  sparkling  draught,  then  breaks 

and  cuts  the  winner. 

Ah,  that  's  the  way  delusion  comes, — a  glass    of  old 

Madeira, 
A   pair   of    visual   diaphragms    revolved    by   Jane   or 

Sarah, 
And  down  go  vows  and  promises  without  the  slightest 

question 
If    eating  words    won't    compromise    the    organs    of 

digestion ! 

And  yet,  among  my  native  shades,  beside  my  nursing 

mother, 
Where  every  stranger  seems  a  friend,  and  every  friend 

a  brother, 

I  feel  the  old  convivial  glow  (unaided)  o'er  me  stealing, — 
The  warm,  champagny,   old-particular,  brandy-punchy 

feeling. 


266  NUX   POSTCCENATICA. 

We  're  all  alike; — Vesuvius  flings  the  scoriae  from  his 

fountain, 
But   down   they  come   in  volleying  rain   back  to  the 

burning  mountain ; 
We  leave,  like  those  volcanic  stones,  our  precious  Alma 

Mater, 
But  will  keep  dropping  in  again  to  see  the  dear  old 

crater. 


ON   LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL. 


THIS  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine, —  it  tells  of  good  old 

times, 
Of  joyous  days,  and  jolly  nights,  and  merry  Christmas 

chimes ; 
They  were  a  free  and  jovial  race,  but  honest,  brave, 

and  true, 
That  dipped  their  ladle  in  the  punch  when  this  old  bowl 

was  new. 


268  ON    LENDING   A   PUNCH-BOWL. 

A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar,  —  so  runs  the  ancient 

tale; 
'T  was  hammered  by  an  Antwerp  smith,  whose  arm  was 

like  a  flail; 
And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes,  for  fear  his 

strength  should  fail, 
He  wiped   his   brow,  and  quaffed  a  cup   of  good   old 

Flemish  ale. 

'T  was  purchased  by  an  English  squire  to  please  his 

loving  dame, 
Who  saw  the  cherubs,  and  conceived  a  longing  for  the 

same ; 
And   oft,  as   on   the   ancient   stock   another  twig  was 

found, 
'T  was  filled  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot,  and  handed 

smoking  round. 

But,  changing  hands,  it  reached  at  length  a  Puritan 

divine, 

Who  used  to  follow  Timothy,  and  take  a  little  wine, 
But  hated  punch  and  prelacy  ;  and  so  it  was,  perhaps, 
He  went  to  Leyden,  where  he  found  conventicles  and 

schnaps. 


ON    LENDING   A   PUNCH-BOWL.  269 

And  then,  of  course,  you  know  what 's  next, —  it  left 

the  Dutchman's  shore 
With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came,  —  a  hundred 

souls  and  more,  — 

Along  with  all  the  furniture,  to  fill  their  new  abodes, — 
To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at  least  a  hundred 

loads. 

'T  was  on  a  dreary  winter's  eve,  the  night  was  closing 

dim, 
When  old  Miles  Standish  took  the  bowl,  and  filled  it  to 

the  brim; 
The  little  Captain  stood  and  stirred  the  posset  with  his 

sword, 
And  all  his  sturdy  men  at  arms  were  ranged  about  the 

the  board. 

He  poured  the  fiery  Hollands  in, —  the  man  that  never 

feared, — 
He   took  a  long   and  solemn  draught,  and  wiped   his 

yellow  beard ; 
And  one  by  one  the  musketeers,  —  the  men  that  fought 

and  prayed, — 
All  drank  as   't  were  their  mother's  milk,  and  not  a 

man  afraid. 


270  ON    LENDING   A    PUNCH-BOWL. 

That   night,  affrighted   from  his   nest,  the   screaming 

eagle  flew, 
He   heard   the    Pequot's   ringing  whoop,  the   soldier's 

wild  halloo ; 
And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule  he  taught  to  kith 

and  kin, 
"  Run  from  the  white  man  when  you  find  he  smells  of 

Hollands  gin ! " 

A  hundred  years,  and   fifty   more,   had  spread  their 

leaves  and  snows, 
A  thousand  rubs  had  flattened  down  each  little  cherub's 

nose; 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  filled,  but  not  in  mirth 

or  joy, 
'T  was  mingled  by  a  mother's  hand  to  cheer  her  parting 

boy. 

Drink,  John,  she  said,  'twill  do  you  good, — poor  child, 

you  '11  never  bear 
This  working  in  the  dismal  trench,  out  in  the  midnight 

air; 
And  if,  —  God  bless  me, — you  were  hurt,  't  would  keep 

away  the  chill ; 
So  John  did  drink,  —  and  well  he  wrought  that  night  at 

Bunker's  Hill ! 


ON    LENDING   A   PUNCH-BOWL.  271 

I  tell  you,  there  was  generous  warmth  in  good  old 
English  cheer ; 

I  tell  you,  't  was  a  pleasant  thought  to  bring  its  symbol 
here. 

'T  is  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess;— hast  thou  a  drunk 
en  soul? 

Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in  my  silver  bowl ! 

I  love  the  memory  of  the  past, —  its  pressed  yet  fragrant 

flowers, — 
The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls,  —  the  ivy  on  its 

towers,  — 
Nay,  this  poor  bauble  it  bequeathed, — my  eyes  grow 

moist  and  dim, 
To  think  of  all  the  vanished  joys  that  danced  around  its 

brim. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear  it  straight  to 

me ; 

The  goblet  hallows  all  it  holds,  whate'er  the  liquid  be ; 
And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect  me  from  the 

sin, 
That  dooms  one  to  those  dreadful  words, — "My  dear, 

where  hare  you  been  ?  " 


THE    STETHOSCOPE    SONG. 

A   PROFESSIONAL    BALLAD. 


THERE  was  a  young  man  in  Boston  town 

He  bought  him  a  STETHOSCOPE  nice  and  new, 

All  mounted  and  finished  and  polished  down, 
With  an  ivory  cap  and  a  stopper  too. 

It  happened  a  spider  within  did  crawl, 
And  spun  him  a  web  of  ample  size, 

Wherein  there  chanced  one  day  to  fall 
A  couple  of  very  imprudent  flies. 


THE    STETHOSCOPE    SONG.  273 

The  first  was  a  bottle-fly,  big  and  blue, 

The  second  was  smaller,  and  thin  and  long; 

So  there  was  a  concert  between  the  two, 
Like  an  octave  flute  and  a  tavern  gong. 

Now  being  from  Paris  but  recently, 

This  fine  young  man  would  show  his  skill ; 

And  so  they  gave  him,  his  hand  to  try, 
A  hospital  patient  extremely  ill. 

Some  said  that  his  liver  was  short  of  bile, 
And  some  that  his  heart  was  over  size, 

While  some  kept  arguing  all  the  while 

He  was  crammed  with  tubercles  up  to  his  eyes. 

This  fine  young  man  then  up  stepped  he, 

And  all  the  doctors  made  a  pause ; 
Said  he, — The  man  must  die,  you  see, 

By  the  fifty-seventh  of  Louis's  laws. 

But,  since  the  case  is  a  desperate  one, 

To  explore  his  chest  it  may  be  well ; 
For,  if  he  should  die  and  it  were  not  done, 

You  know  the  autopsy  would  not  tell. 

18 


274  THE    STETHOSCOPE    SONG. 

Then  out  his  stethoscope  he  took, 

And  on  it  placed  his  curious  ear ; 

Mon  Dieu !  said  he,  with  a  knowing  look, 

Why  here  is  a  sound  that 's  mighty  queer ! 

The  bourdonnement  is  very  clear, — 

Amphoric  buzzing,  as  I  'm  alive ! 
Five  doctors  took  their  turn  to  hear; 

Amphoric  buzzing,  said  all  the  five. 

There  's  empyema  hey  on  d  a  doubt ; 

We  '11  plunge  a  trocar  in  his  side.  — 
The  diagnosis  was  made  out, 

They  tapped  the  patient ;  so  he  died. 

Now  such  as  hate  new-fashioned  toys 

Began  to  look  extremely  glum ; 
They  said  that  rattles  were  made  for  boys, 

And  vowed  that  his  buzzing  was  all  a  hum. 

There  was  an  old  lady  had  long  been  sick, 

And  what  was  the  matter  none  did  know  ; 

Her  pulse  was  slow,  though  her  tongue  was  quick; 
To  her  this  knowing  youth  must  go. 


THE    STETHOSCOPE    SONG.  275 

So  there  the  nice  old  lady  sat, 

With  phials  and  boxes  all  in  a  row; 
She  asked  the  young  doctor  what  he  was  at, 

To  thump  her  and  tumble  her  ruffles  so. 

Now, when  the  stethoscope  came  out, 

The  flies  began  to  buzz  and  whiz ;  — 
0  ho !   the  matter  is  clear,  no  doubt; 

An  aneurism  there  plainly  is. 

The  bruit  de  rape  and  the  bruit  de  scie 

And  the  bruit  de  diable  are  all  combined ; 

How  happy  Bouillaud  would  be, 

If  he  a  case  like  this  could  find ! 

Now, when  the  neighbouring  doctors  found 

A  case  so  rare  had  been  descried, 
They  every  day  her  ribs  did  pound 

In  squads  of  twenty ;  so  she  died. 

Then  six  young  damsels,  slight  and  frail, 

Received  this  kind  young  doctor's  cares ; 

They  all  were  getting  slim  and  pale, 

And  short  of  breath  on  mounting  stairs. 


276  THE    STETHOSCOPE    SONG. 

They  all  made  rhymes  with  "  sighs  "  and  "  skies," 
And  loathed  their  puddings  and  buttered  rolls, 

And  dieted,  much  to  their  friends'  surprise, 

On  pickles  and  pencils  and  chalk  and  coals. 

So  fast  their  little  hearts  did  bound, 

The  frightened  insects  buzzed  the  more  ; 

So  over  all  their  chests  he  found 

The  rule  sifflant,  and  rule  sonore. 

He  shook  his  head; — there  's  grave  disease, — 

I  greatly  fear  you  all  must  die ; 
A  slight  post-mortem,  if  you  please, 

Surviving  friends  would  gratify. 

The  six  young  damsels  wept  aloud, 

Which  so  prevailed  on  six  young  men, 

That  each  his  honest  love  avowed, 
Whereat  they  all  got  well  again. 

This  poor  young  man  was  all  aghast ; 

The  price  of  stethoscopes  came  down ; 
And  so  he  was  reduced  at  last 

To  practise  in  a  country  town. 


THE    STETHOSCOPE    SONG.  277 

The  doctors  being  very  sore, 

A  stethoscope  they  did  devise, 
That  had  a  rammer  to  clear  the  bore, 

With  a  knob  at  the  end  to  kill  the  flies. 

Now  use  your  ears,  all  you  that  can, 

But  don't  forget  to  mind  your  eyes, 
Or  you  may  be  cheated,  like  this  young  man, 

By  a  couple  of  silly,  abnormal  flies. 


EXTRACTS    FROM  A  MEDICAL    POEM. 


THE   STABILITY   OF   SCIENCE. 

THE  feeble  seabirds,  blinded  in  the  storms, 
On  some  tall  lighthouse  dash  their  little  forms, 
And  the  rude  granite  scatters  for  their  pains 
Those  small  deposits  that  were  meant  for  brains. 
Yet  the  proud  fabric  in  the  morning's  sun 
Stands  all  unconscious  of  the  mischief  done ; 
Still  the  red  beacon  pours  its  evening  rays 
For  the  lost  pilot  with  as  full  a  blaze, 
Nay,  shines, all  radiance,  o'er  the  scattered  fleet 
Of  gulls  and  boobies  brainless  at  its  feet. 

I  tell  their  fate,  though  courtesy  disclaims 
To  call  our  kind  by  such  ungentle  names ; 
Yet,  if  your  rashness  bid  you  vainly  dare, 
Think  of  their  doom,  ye  simple,  and  beware ! 


'EXTRACTS   FROM   A   MEDICAL   POEM.  279 

See  where  aloft  its  hoary  forehead  rears 
The  towering  pride  of  twice  a  thousand  years ! 
Far,  far  below  the  vast  incumbent  pile 
Sleeps  the  gray  rock  from  art's  .ZEgean  isle ; 
Its  massive  courses,  circling  as  they  rise, 
Swell  from  the  waves  to  mingle  with  the  skies ; 
There  every  quarry  lends  its  marble  spoil, 
And  clustering  ages  blend  their  common  toil ; 
The  Greek,  the  Roman,  reared  its  ancient  walls, 
The  silent  Arab  arched  its  mystic  halls ; 
In  that  fair  niche,  by  countless  billows  laved, 
Trace  the  deep  lines  that  Sydenham  engraved ; 
On  yon  broad  front  that  breasts  the  changing  swell, 
Mark  where  the  ponderous  sledge  of  Hunter  fell ; 
By  that  square  buttress  look  where  Louis  stands, 
The  stone  yet  warm  from  his  uplifted  hands ; 
And  say,  O  Science,  shall  thy  life-blood  freeze 
When  fluttering  folly  flaps  on  walls  like  these  ? 


A    PORTRAIT. 

SIMPLE  in  youth,  but  not  austere  in  age; 
Calm,  but  not  cold,  and  cheerful  though  a  sage ; 
Too  true  to  flatter,  and  too  kind  to  sneer, 
And  only  just  when  seemingly  severe; 


280  EXTRACTS    FROM   A   MEDICAL   POEM. 

So  gently  blending  courtesy  and  art, 

That  wisdom's  lips  seemed  borrowing  friendship's  heart ; 

Taught  by  the  sorrows  that  his  age  had  known 

In  others'  trials  to  forget  his  own, 

As  hour  by  hour  his  lengthened  day  declined, 

The  sweeter  radiance  lingered  o'er  his  mind. 

Cold  were  the  lips  that  spoke  his  early  praise, 

And  hushed  the  voices  of  his  morning  days, 

Yet  the  same  accents  dwelt  on  every  tongue, 

And  love  renewing  kept  him  ever  young. 


A    SENTIMENT. 

'0  fiios  fi^a/vs —  life  is  but  a  song  — 
'H Te%vr]  pax^  —  art  is  wondrous  long; 
Yet  to  the  wise  her  paths  are  ever  fair, 
And  Patience  smiles,  though  Genius  may  despair. 
Give  us  but  knowledge,  though  by  slow  degrees, 
And  blend  our  toil  with  moments  bright  as  these ; 
Let  Friendship's  accents  cheer  our  doubtful  way, 
And  Love's  pure  planet  lend  its  guiding  ray,  — 
Our  tardy  Art  shall  wear  an  angel's  wings, 
And  life  shall  lengthen  with  the  joy  it  brings ! 


A    SONG   OF    OTHER    DAYS. 


As  o'er  the  glacier's  frozen  sheet 

Breathes  soft  the  Alpine  rose, 
So, through  life's  desert  springing  sweet, 

The  flower  of  friendship  grows ; 
And  as,  where'er  the  roses  grow, 

Some  rain  or  dew  descends, 
'T  is  nature's  law  that  wine  should  flow 

To  wet  the  lips  of  friends. 

Then  once  again, before  we  part, 
My  empty  glass  shall  ring ; 

And  he  that  has  the  warmest  heart 
Shall  loudest  laugh  and  sing. 


282  A   SONG    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

They  say  we  were  not  born  to  eat ; 

But  gray-haired  sages  think 
It  means, — Be  moderate  in  your  meat, 

And  partly  live  to  drink ; 
For  baser  tribes  the  rivers  flow 

That  know  not  wine  or  song ; 
Man  wants  but  little  drink  below, 

But  wants  that  little  strong. 

Then  once  again,  etc. 

If  one  bright  drop  is  like  the  gem 

That  decks  a  monarch's  crown, 
One  goblet  holds  a  diadem 

Of  rubies  melted  down  ! 
A  fig  for  Caesar's  blazing  brow, 

But,  like  the  Egyptian  queen, 
Bid  each  dissolving  jewel  glow 

My  thirsty  lips  between. 

Then  once  again,  etc. 

The  Grecian's  mound,  the  Roman's  urn, 
Are  silent  when  we  call, 

Yet  still  the  purple  grapes  return 
To  cluster  on  the  wall ; 


A  SONG  OF  OTHER  DAYS.  283 

It  was  a  bright  Immortal's  head 

They  circled  with  the  vine, 
And  o'er  their  best  and  bravest  dead 

They  poured  the  dark-red  wine. 

Then  once  again,  etc. 


Methiriks  o'er  every  sparkling  glass 

Young  Eros  waves  his  wings, 
And  echoes  o'er  its  dimples  pass 

From  dead  Anacreon's  strings ; 
And,  tossing  round  its  beaded  brim 

Their  locks  of  floating  gold, 
With  bacchant  dance  and  choral  hymn 

Return  the  nymphs  of  old. 

Then  once  again,  etc. 


A  welcome  then  to  joy  and  mirth, 
From  hearts  as  fresh  as  ours, 

To  scatter  o'er  the  dust  of  earth 

Their  sweetly  mingled  flowers ; 


284  A  SONG  OF  OTHER  DAYS. 

T'  is  Wisdom's  self  the  cup  that  fills 
In  spite  of  Folly's  frown, 

And  Nature, from  her  vine-clad  hills, 
That  rains  her  life-blood  down ! 

Then  once  again,  etc. 


A    SENTIMENT. 


THE  pledge  of  Friendship !  it  is  still  divine, 

Though  water}'-  floods  have  quenched  its  turning  wine ; 

Whatever  vase  the  sacred  drops  may  hold, 

The  gourd,  the  shell,  the  cup  of  beaten  gold, 

Around  its  brim  the  hand  of  Nature  throws 

A  garland  sweeter  than  the  banquet's  rose. 

Bright  are  the  blushes  of  the  vine-wreathed  bowl, 

Warm  with  the  sunshine  of  Anacreon's  soul, 

But  dearer  memories  gild  the  tasteless  wave 

That  fainting  Sidney  perished  as  he  gave. 

'T  is  the  heart's  current  lends  the  cup  its  glow, 

Whate'er  the  fountain  whence  the  draught  may  flow, — 

The  diamond  dew-drops  sparkling  through  the  sand, 

Scooped  by  the  Arab  in  his  sunburnt  hand, 

Or  the  dark  streamlet  oozing  from  the  snow, 

Where  creep  and  crouch  the  shuddering  Esquimaux;  — 


286 


A    SENTIMENT. 


Ay,  in  the  stream  that  ere  again  we  meet, 
Shall  burst  the  pavement,  glistening  at  our  feet, 
And,  stealing  silent  from  its  leafy  hills, 
Thread  all  our  alleys  with  its  thousand  rills,  — 
In  each  pale  draught  if  generous  feeling  blend, 
And  o'er  the  goblet  friend  shall  smile  on  friend, 
Even  cold  Cochituate  every  heart  shall  warm, 
And  genial  Nature  still  defy  reform ! 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
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GOT   19  193S 


JUN    4. 


LD  21-95m-7,'37 


I       4      .    V 

*      '  , 

'' 


